


In Want of Magic

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 65
Words: 353,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: 3.01-4.01. "I just want my senior year to be magic."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

"I just - I can't believe how many applicants there are that are exactly like us. Better, even!"

Kurt scowled at his notes on the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts, gripping his non-fat mocha tightly. The coffee cup looked dangerously close to crumpling under his white-knuckled grip, but Blaine simply slid his hand across the table and rested it on top of Kurt's. Without looking up, Kurt loosened his grip on the cup, letting Blaine intertwine their fingers. For several long, quiet moments, only the noise of the coffee shop prevailed, Blaine's thumb sweeping over Kurt's knuckles in slow, soothing strokes. At last, a soft sigh escaped him as he leaned back in his chair, some of the tension draining from his shoulders as he looked up. "Who are we kidding, Blaine? We live in Ohio. The so-called bees' knees around here are football players who can't even pass Algebra II unless they've retaken it five times. We're not even blips on the radar compared to them. How are we supposed to make it in New York?"

"Don't you think you're overestimating these people a little?" Blaine suggested, looking over at his boyfriend. It hurt to see the difference that two days and a tour gone wrong had made. Before, Kurt had sported his latest H&M acquisition proudly, shoulders straight to emphasize the smooth, clean lines of the red-and-white plaid. Looking at him then, Blaine could see the stress already cording the muscles underneath, making him looking hunched over and worn. He wanted to tug Kurt to his feet and hug him until the knots loosened and his shoulders slouched in relief. Sensing that a single wrong move would make the tenuous grip that Kurt had on his emotions snap, Blaine sat silently across from him, nursing his own cup of coffee absentmindedly. "They're just like you, Kurt. They've had to deal with high school and all of those same auditioning processes that we have. It's not like they were born on a Broadway stage."

Kurt sighed, shaking his head minutely as he stared at a point over Blaine's shoulder. They were the only two diners left at the Lima Bean, an unsurprising fact given that it was almost eleven that evening. Under normal circumstances, Blaine wouldn't have condoned caffeine so late in the day, but as soon as Kurt had called him he had known that something was wrong. The soft, almost dead tone to Kurt's voice as he had explained the results of the NYADA orientation had been enough to spur Blaine into action, hastening to assure Kurt that he could meet him for coffee and then they could talk it over. While Blaine wasn't entirely convinced that two cups of coffee would improve Kurt's attitude (if anything, he seemed only more agitated then than he had been twenty minutes ago), the prospect of telling him to stop was dissuading enough that Blaine had let him drink to his fill.

Eventually, Kurt met Blaine's gaze, jaw tense. Blaine gave his hand a comforting squeeze, hoping to stem the flow of his disappointment a little, but he knew that the effort was futile. "Several of them have performed professionally," he quipped. "Most, actually. The rest have all joined so many extra-curriculars that one has a five page essay listing them." Kurt shook his head, exhaustion and despair catching up with him. "I just . . . I don't know what to do. I know that I was strong for Rachel and everything, but what if we really can't make it? What if we're destined for Lima Loserdom?"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Blaine murmured, sensing that the worst of the tirade had finally passed as he pulled Kurt's hand away from his coffee and gripped it tightly in his own, resting both against the table. He leaned forward a little to meet Kurt's gaze as he deflected and looked aside, willing him to understand. "You are . . . an incredible performer, Kurt. The control that you have over your voice is amazing, and your range is something that most singers spend their entire lives aspiring to achieve. In show business, that's what counts. Your natural ability alone gives you an edge, but you've been honing your skills for years. And ultimately, it all comes down to the final auditions. Whatever your transcript says will help you with the academics, but NYADA is a performance school. They're looking for a performer. You still have time to perfect your skills and bulk up your transcript." Squeezing Kurt's hand again, he added quietly, "Please don't give up before you've even tried."

Kurt stayed silent for several long moments. Blaine could almost see the warring emotions flickering across his face as he scuffed a fingertip against the table, drawing in a barely audible but slightly shuddering breath. His eyes glistened between one blink and the next, his resolve almost visibly hardening as he nodded. "I know," he said at last. "I still have time to improve and . . . regardless of what Harmony says, it's never too late to enter the show business." He offered a slightly watery smile at that, adding, "Besides, someone has to give this cow-town a better reputation than 'most drop-outs in the Midwest.' I don't plan on adding my name to that list."

"And you shouldn't," Blaine agreed. "No one deserves to succeed more than you do, Kurt."

"I'm sure that Rachel would beg to differ," Kurt murmured, a slightly wry smile crossing his face.

Blaine tipped his head in a concessionary manner, waiting for Kurt to go on. When nothing seemed forthcoming, he asked softly, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kurt quipped, almost too quickly, before giving Blaine's hand a reassuring squeeze. "What's the real world without a few reality checks, hmm?" He picked up his abandoned coffee cup and took a small sip from it, wrinkling his nose as he set it aside.

"Do you want another?" Blaine asked reflexively, moving to stand up. After fetching the previous two for him, it didn't occur to him to think twice about the hour, or the sullen looks that the barista was giving them. A tiny smile crinkled the corner of Kurt's eyes as he shook his head, tugging him back down.

"No," he assured, reaching over to gather the sheets that he had spread across the table - his unfilled application for the Lima Bean among them - and sliding them neatly into his satchel. "But I'm pretty sure that if we stay much longer, they'll lock us in the deep freezer until morning with the rest of the unused condiments." He pushed his chair back and stood up, Blaine following suit as he shouldered his own satchel, grabbing both their coffee cups and walking them over to the trash. A pair of warm arms sneaked around his waist briefly as he stepped back, bumping gently into Kurt's chest. "Thank you," was all Kurt said, giving him a light squeeze before pulling back to shrug on his coat. Blaine couldn't help but smile as he hurried to do the same.

He held open the door for Kurt, who rolled his eyes playfully before intertwining their fingers and tugging him outside. It was brisk out, hovering in the mid-fifties with a biting wind, but neither boy minded the short walk to Kurt's Navigator. Kurt slid into the front seat and turned on the ignition, one hand resting over the center console that Blaine kept warmed with his own as they crossed street after empty street, alternating between listening to the radio and chatting about Glee club rehearsals coming up.

"I still can't believe that you actually transferred," Kurt commented lightly as street signs gave way to long stretches of highway, nearly empty but for the late-night commuters.

"I can't believe that Rachel hasn't jumped on me for being a spy," Blaine retorted loftily, squeezing Kurt's hand.

Kurt rolled his eyes as he adjusted the heat a little, turning it down as the engine kicked in. "She knows that I'd take away her Rachel privileges if she did."

Blaine lifted an eyebrow as he tilted his head to look at Kurt. "Rachel privileges?"

"Artie constructed an official handbook over the summer about the specific powers that 'the Rachel' has," Kurt explained, tapping his fingers against the wheel lightly as he drove. "She can storm out during meetings, make official speeches, and commandeer the official set list for any competition at any time."

"Seems like a lot," Blaine admitted.

"That's just the basic overview. There are amendments and other factors that keep things from being too one-sided. Mr. Schuester can overrule her if it's a meeting regarding a competition or official school performance, for example."

"That's . . . reassuring," Blaine said slowly.

Kurt smiled, giving his hand another squeeze. "Don't worry, I won't let her boss us around too much. Ever since we've decided that we're too like-minded to be enemies, we've discovered that our mutual goals require us to get along well at least half of the time. She can't storm out at every practice, and I already gave her a long talk about 'Why My Boyfriend is Not a Spy' the other day."

Blaine felt warmth curl in his chest at the reference to himself as Kurt's boyfriend, smiling at the scenery flashing by outside his window. Kurt went on to explain other changes that had been made over the summer, including his successful rehashing of the Pip Pip Hooray musical. He'd been able to cross it off his bucket list, which had expanded to a considerable one hundred and thirty seven items over the summer. Eighteen were already completed, including shave off the baby fat and learn how to repair an engine. Blaine didn't completely understand the importance of some of the choices, and Kurt refused to let him see the full list on his phone, insisting on reading off one or two at a time. Nevertheless, Blaine found it incredibly soothing to listen to Kurt talk about his goals and ambitions. It restored his confidence in Kurt's future, knowing that for all his discomfort with the high bar already set by his Midwestern competitors, he still wouldn't be left completely in the dust if one or two of his goals flopped.

"What are you thinking about?" Kurt asked, breaking his reverie.

Blaine smiled, answering without hesitation, "You."

An echoing smile crossed Kurt's face as he pulled down the street and into Blaine's driveway, shifting the car into park. "Here we are," he said quietly, looking over at Blaine.

"Here we are," Blaine agreed, not moving to unbuckle his seat belt or get out of the car. Silence reigned as they looked at each other, small smiles even more pronounced in the dim light reflecting off the dashboard. Blaine leaned forward and kissed him once, lightly, before squeezing his hand and unbuckling his seat belt. "You - are - perfect - to - me," he insisted, emphasizing each word with a gentle kiss to Kurt's lips. "No matter what happens with NYADA, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said, smiling a little dazedly as he reached up to cup Blaine's cheek, rubbing a thumb over it briefly before pulling back. "Thank you," he added seriously.

Blaine smiled at him in answer, climbing out of the passenger's seat and picking up his satchel from the floor, shutting the door and stepping back to wave at Kurt as he pulled out of the driveway, lifting a hand in a slight wave. Watching him until he'd made it down the street and around the corner, Blaine turned towards his own house and sidled up to the front door, unlocking it and stepping inside.

Things happen for a reason, he told himself as he shut it behind himself and toed off his shoes. If Kurt doesn't get into NYADA, then he wasn't meant to.

Mutinously, a voice added, He will, and he fell asleep to the words ringing in his ears.

* * *

"Aren't you in a good mood."

Blaine sauntered down the hall, holding Kurt's hand in his own and smiling at the wary looks that greeted them. "I am, actually." He knew that he was almost begging for trouble by walking arm-in-arm with his boyfriend, but he couldn't help himself. Kurt and he hadn't attended the same school since Kurt transferred back to McKinley, and it was exciting to be back with him.

The transfer itself had been easy enough. He had talked with Principal Figgins, filled out a few generic papers and then had his parents sign them. That had taken the most work -- neither Emily nor Brian Anderson had been particularly enthusiastic about their only son sacrificing Dalton Academy for a fairly run-of-the-mill public school -- but in the end, they'd both seen the financial appeal and caved. Blaine had conveniently forgotten to mention that it was the same school that his boyfriend attended. He knew that it would only add further suspicion to the emotions doubtlessly whirling through his parents' minds; leaving them ignorant on the matter would not harm them.

It wasn't like he had transferred to McKinley just for Kurt. He had done it because . . . well, because he needed to. Dalton had been a safe haven for him, and he had loved the Warblers, but he could feel the tides changing, new people moving in to fill the spots emptied by the previous graduates. He didn't know how the waters would settle or where allegiances would fall, and ultimately, Kurt was right. Dalton was a cage. The uniforms, the curriculum, even the school itself were all designed for a more elite, cultured student body than that which attended McKinley. He might thrive under its sheltering wing, but the Warblers' rigid status quo left little room for improvement or error. He had known that his talents weren't being suppressed or underused under the Warblers' tutelage, but the way that Kurt had described the dynamic that the New Directions had had made the decision slightly easier for him.

The Warblers that he had known and loved had been like a family to him. Despite the initial lackluster response to his arrival, Blaine was confident that the New Directions could warm up to him, too. He didn't intend to fill the spot of 'the Rachel' or, even more notoriously, Finn, but he knew that he was perceived that way by at least half of the group, the other half more receptive to the idea of fresh blood that had already had some experience in the show choir ring. As long as he could reach an amicable middle ground with the rest, then he would be satisfied.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond to Kurt's latest inquiry about his classes - he'd been keeping up a steady stream of conversation as Blaine sifted through his own thoughts - it happened.

Blindingly cold blue ice smashed into his face as he rounded the corner with Kurt in tow, effectively breaking him out of his optimistic reverie.

"Welcome to McKinley, Glee-otch," someone sneered, laughter echoing around him as the offender moved off.

"Gross," he muttered, a handful of blue slush sliding off his face. He cringed at the wet smack that it made on the floor, knowing that at Dalton that would have been a punishable offense. No one raised an outcry at the blatant vandalism here, perhaps too shocked or indifferent to care about it. Blaine felt Kurt's arm go rigid against his own, his hand almost crushing Blaine's as the laughter slowly started to fade.

"Really? You're that mature?" Kurt demanded caustically, seeming game for some sort of confrontation.

"Kurt, it's okay," Blaine murmured, his own voice lost as Kurt sneered something else after the slushier.

Blaine didn't mind, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand before a firm one stopped him. "Oh, Blaine," Kurt sighed, his grip relaxing as he tugged him aside, gently but firmly. "I am so sorry." Blaine opened his mouth to say that it wasn't that bad, really, once the worst of the slushy had dripped off his face, pooling around his chest and shoulders instead. Kurt didn't give him the chance, dragging him off to the boys' bathroom and clicking the lock quietly behind him.

"They're always at their worst the first week back," he explained, his voice a mixture of desperation and conciliation as he turned on one of the taps. The sound of rushing water was almost soothing in the quiet, a calming contrast to Kurt's disgruntlement. Blaine heard paper towels being yanked from their holder before Kurt was brushing the slushy off his face, wetting the towels underneath the sink before dabbing around his eyes. "It's all that testosterone built up over the summer," he said, brushing the remnants of ice away from Blaine's cheeks. "Here, just--" Blaine watched as he cupped his hands and carefully trickled some water over the top of Blaine's head. A vapid stream of watered-down blue dye flowed down into the sink, dripping out of his hair. Kurt repeated the process three or four times before turning it over to Blaine, who took the opportunity to brush out the worst of matted gel and slush.

"I'm really sorry that that happened," Kurt added quietly when Blaine turned off the sink and reached for a handful of dry paper towels to repair the worst of the damage to his hair. "I guess I hoped that maybe they would be more mature than that."

"It's not your fault," Blaine said, tossing the used towels in the garbage bin by the door.

"It is," Kurt insisted, watching him in the mirror from a few feet away. He looked elegant in his dark blue waistcoat and white long-sleeve, a pair of navy pants clinging snugly to his legs and disguising some of the collateral damage. Blaine could still see from the smattering of blue droplets on the arm that he'd thrown it in front of his own face for protection, a guilty smile crossing his lips even as Kurt's gaze stayed focused on him, regret radiating off him in waves. "I should never have made you come here. I shouldn't have--"

"You didn't make me come here," Blaine interrupted, stepping close enough that he could wrap his arms around Kurt's waist and giving it a light squeeze. He could almost feel the apprehension radiating off Kurt as he soothed his hands down Kurt's arms, willing him to calm down. "I signed those papers. I chose to come here. Please don't beat yourself up over something you didn't even do."

"I encouraged you to come here," Kurt pointed out.

"And I'm happy that to be here."

That seemed to stall Kurt momentarily, his mouth opening reflexively in protest before he closed it as he tilted his head to look at Blaine silently instead. With a soft sigh, he wrapped his own arms around Blaine's damp shoulders. "I'm glad you're here, too," he admitted. "Even if I can't believe that you've already been slushied." He reached up to brush his fingers through Blaine's damp hair, smoothing it down somewhat. "I was hoping that they wouldn't do it at all, but--"

"Weren't you the one who told me that everyone in Glee club has been slushied at some point? Doesn't this just make me official?"

A tiny smile quirked the edges of Kurt's lips upward. "I suppose it does," he said softly, leaning over to kiss Blaine's cheek. He lingered for a moment and Blaine found himself tilting his head to lean in for a proper kiss unthinkingly.

Before he could capture Kurt's lips, a banging noise came from the other side of the door. They sprung apart, Kurt hurrying to smooth down his own hair - as if it needed fixing, Blaine thought, amused - while Blaine focused on making himself as presentable as possible. It was no easy feat - his hair was in complete disarray and his shirt borderline irreparable - but at least he felt somewhat human as he unlocked the door. Clearly, the person on the other side had disappeared, but the mood was broken and both boys knew it. A laugh bubbled out of Blaine's throat as he realized where they were and exactly how unromantic an impromptu make-out session would have been.

"Come on," Kurt said, flicking one of Blaine's corn syrupy curls off his forehead contemplatively. "You need a new shirt. Nothing I can do about the hair, but I've got a spare in my locker that might fit."

* * *

"Isn't that Kurt's shirt?" Rachel asked with a pointed smile as Blaine and Kurt entered the choir room ten minutes later, the rest of the New Directions chatting loudly with each other.

Blaine shrugged, tugging self-consciously at the red collar of it. Kurt's chest was narrower and his shoulders broader than Blaine's, but overall, it fit snugly, manageable if not perfect.

"I'm just borrowing it," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He felt Kurt's hand on his shoulder briefly, subtly steering him away from the open seats next to Rachel as they made a beeline for the top tier instead.

"Some hockey jock slushied him," Kurt added.

Rachel made a sympathetic noise as she flicked through a stack of papers and shook her head. "Well, at least now you know what it's like. We wouldn't want my new duet partner slushied right before an important number, now, would we?" She looked up at him with an almost conspiratorial gleam in her eye; Blaine didn't miss the way Kurt's hand tightened on his shoulder, a silent warning to refrain from responding. He was spared the necessity as Mr. Schuester stepped into the room, his arms loaded with papers and folders, a slightly harried expression plastered on his face.

"All right, guys," Schuester announced, hobbling over to the center of the room and setting his burden down on top of the piano. (Blaine saw the pianist eye him distastefully, a bored expression quickly overtaking it as Schuester continued speaking.) "Now, I know that some of you have already chosen your top colleges. For most of you, however, this is all still a new and exciting process. Therefore, for the undecideds sitting in the room, I want you to have all the resources that you might need to make an educated decision. Your future is at stake here, and I don't want anyone downplaying that just because you aren't sure what exactly you're looking for. And some of these schools you might not even have thought of."

He walked back over to the piano and grabbed a stack of folders from the top, passing them along the rows. "These might be the keys to your future," he said simply. "Use them."

Kurt and Blaine accepted theirs without comment. Kurt glanced dismissively at the Ohio-based colleges and universities, instead carding through the list until he reached the ones with 'New York' on the front. Blaine spent more time on his, skimming over each pamphlet carefully before moving on to the next one. When he reached the end of the list, he shut the folder gently, setting it down on his knees and fixing his attention back on Schuester as he spoke.

"Now that we have that settled--"

"Mr. Schue, if I may?" Blaine saw Kurt roll his eyes at Rachel's interruption and reached over to give his hand a comforting squeeze. Kurt's lips twitched in a smile as he intertwined them, squeezing Blaine's back. "We only have nine members," Rachel continued, waving her hand demonstratively at the assembled group. "We need at least three more before we can compete at regionals."

"I know," Schuester said. "I was just about to get to that--"

"We could ask the skanks to join us," Brittany suggested.

"I don't think they'd be very interested," Schuester interrupted delicately. "However--"

"I already tried to get Quinn back," Rachel admitted, shaking her head. "She told me to leave or one of her new friends would beat me up."

"We can't dwell on the bad," Schuester insisted, tapping his fist against a pamphlet emphatically. "We just have to--"

"How are we supposed to recruit new members when all we've been doing lately is losing them?" Puck demanded, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat.

"Not to mention we've already lost four since the first day of school," Mercedes reminded, ticking them off her fingers. "Sam, Quinn, Santana, and Zizes."

"Is it always like this?" Blaine whispered to Kurt as further arguments erupted around them. Kurt shrugged and patted his arm.

"Usually."

"Enough!" Schuester barked at last. "Guys, we can still do this. We just have to stay focused and keep each other motivated. Now, I know this hasn't been the easiest road for you all, but now more than ever you need to talk to your peers and get them to sign up."

"And if we can't?" Puck asked.

"Then we don't compete," Schuester said, shrugging.

"We have to compete," Rachel said at once.

"Exactly. So. Any ideas?"

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look.

Any ideas? they both seemed to ask.

And, at once: No.


	2. Chapter 2

"Okay, Rachel's college planner is kind of scaring me," Blaine admitted, staring across the cafeteria at the binder and girl-in-question. "How many schools are even in there?"

"Just her top forty," Kurt replied, surveying his lunch tray dismally. It would have been a fair guess to say that McKinley's food should have improved over time, but Kurt was convinced that the salad in front of him hadn't seen the light of day since the early nineties. Picking off a piece of iceberg lettuce moodily, he stabbed a questionable-looking tomato and set it aside. Three years had taught him that it was better to wait for more edible meals after school where he could confirm that the food actually came from the plants and animals that it was supposed to. Blaine hadn't even touched his tray; Kurt couldn't blame him. Occasionally, he brought his own lunch to school to stave off the hunger during particularly stressful days, but for the most part, he shared the same sentiment. "There are over two hundred logged under Consideration."

Blaine whistled softly, impressed. "Wow."

"She's been working on that for three years now," Kurt said, waving a hand dismissively. He knew that since Blaine was new to McKinley and therefore the inner workings of the New Directions, he hadn't yet seen the extremes that Rachel would go to on a daily basis in order to have her way. Compiling a list of colleges that she wanted to go to - however expansive - was nothing new. "She's been fine tuning it since she was a sophomore." He shrugged and pushed his tray aside, not bothering to feign interest any longer as he rested his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. Blaine had half-turned in his seat to watch Rachel as she flipped through the pages, not paying them the slightest attention from her vantage point. Kurt rolled his eyes at his fascination, part vexed, part amused. He didn't want to spend his entire lunch period talking about Rachel. Not when Blaine and he were finally at the same high school again and had the ability to talk about them instead.

"Isn't it weird thinking about the future all the time?" Blaine asked at last, gaze following Rachel as she stood and exited the cafeteria.

"Not really, no," Kurt said shortly, hoping to close the conversation as he nudged Blaine's arm. "Stop staring. She'll think you're spying and try and 'dispose' of you when I'm not looking."

Blaine looked apologetic as he shifted to face Kurt instead, his purple bow tie standing out prominently against his white-and-green striped shirt. "Sorry," he murmured, grabbing a forkful of salad in a valiant attempt at politeness and popping it into his mouth. He almost choked on the first swallow, his Adam's apple working as he kept a slightly pained smile plastered on his face. Kurt raised an eyebrow questioningly, amused by Blaine's expression. "Oh, wow. That's - awful." Scrunching up his face a little as though bracing himself, Blaine took several more bites in quick succession, Kurt grinning as he watched.

"At least you only have to put up with it for a year," he pointed out dryly.

Blaine nodded in agreement, setting his plastic fork aside after scarfing down a suitably large portion of the meal. "I'm still definitely getting coffee after school. Are you available?"

Kurt uncapped his water bottle and took a sip from it, shrugging ambivalently. "You aren't worried that you're getting addicted to it?"

Blaine put on a mildly affronted look. "You can't get addicted to coffee."

"Of course not," Kurt said dryly, his voice almost dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair.

"Do you want to go?" Blaine prodded.

With a smirk, Kurt opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off with a yelp as a folder slammed down on the table in front of him.

"We have a crisis," Rachel said, sitting down beside Blaine and flipping open the binder. Despite her declaration, Kurt thought that she appeared rather composed for a crisis. The likelihood that it was something genuinely wrong was minimal, but Kurt leaned over intently regardless. Blaine looked puzzled from his vantage point, on the verge of backing away from Rachel and leaning closer, uncertain which would be the more appropriate action. I'd back away, Kurt thought. Rachel crises never end well.

Rachel's next words erased any further doubt from his mind.

"Jesse St. James is at Julliard."

* * *

Blaine blinked in surprise. "Who's--"

Kurt spoke before he could finish. "You're kidding," he deadpanned. "What is he doing there?"

Rachel looked on the verge of tears or panic. "I don't know," she said, flipping through her binder, "but he's on the register and I've seen pictures of him on the polo team."

Blaine tried again in the momentary stunned silence that ensued. "Wait, why is it--"

"This cannot be happening," Kurt interrupted.

"What's--?"

"Should we even apply?" Rachel asked tentatively, shutting the binder and looking at Kurt.

Kurt's expression was horrified. "Of course we should!" he exclaimed. "How could you even say that? Maybe he'll get expelled. . . ." he added, looking thoughtful.

Rachel didn't look impressed. "I don't want him expelled."

Kurt leveled a glare at Rachel, who stubbornly held her ground. Blaine looked between them and shifted a little away from Rachel, putting some space between him and Kurt as well. He wanted to be a part of it, but not if it meant blood over who would win. Which, judging by the determined expressions on both of their faces, it probably would. "Well," he hedged, "is it really that bad?"

Again ignoring him, Kurt demanded, "Rachel, please do not tell me you still have feelings for that boy."

"I don't!"

Blaine knew Kurt well enough to interpret the bitch, please look he gave her then.

"You should know that they'll be arguing for hours," Artie piped in, wheeling up beside the table and looking over at Rachel and Kurt without batting an eyelash before returning his attention to Blaine. "It ain't gonna be pretty."

"We dated for six weeks, Kurt. I'm not going back to him!" Rachel insisted, almost drowning out Artie's commentary as her voice rose.

"Does Finn know about this yet? I can't believe he's at Julliard--"

Looking over as something tapped his shoulder pointedly, Blaine saw that Artie was still there. "Follow me," he ordered, and then he whirled around and started rolling away.

Blaine stared after him for a moment before getting to his feet, doing his best not to bump into Rachel despite their close quarters. She wasn't even looking up, nose buried in her binder while Kurt prattled on about how Jesse St. James could not be going to one of his dream schools. Their dream schools.

"Does this happen a lot?" Blaine asked, walking along at a brisk pace after Artie down the rows.

Artie shrugged, pushing through the doors on his own as Blaine trotted along behind him. "Almost every day. They won't stop talking about it until they get in. My recommendation is avoidance at all costs. Buy some protective headgear, wear pads, and file a restraining order. Works like a charm."

Rolling off before Blaine could ask exactly how dangerous they were when they were fired up about their futures, Artie disappeared around a corner at the end of the hallway.

"You should totally listen to him. He once gave me a magic comb and we won regionals with it," Brittany said, materializing by his side.

Smiling at her, ignoring the bizarre nature of that particular statement, Blaine looked at her with both eyebrows raised. She linked arms with him casually and tugged him down the hall in the opposite direction towards the gymnasium.

"Have you met Coach Sylvester yet?" she asked, swinging their intertwined arms nonchalantly. "She's awesome, but she thinks you're a hobbit."

Mentally sorting through the profiles of people from McKinley he knew, Blaine brightened as he remembered the blond-haired cheerleading coach back at the Lima Bean. "Oh, I've met--"

"We should totally hang out some time," Brittany interrupted. "You're the only guy in this school I haven't dated yet, and Kurt likes you. Did you know he has amazing soft baby hands?"

"Uhh. . . ."

"Come on. I want to show you something."

"What--"

Blaine didn't even have time to worry about what it was before Brittany was tugging him into the gym.

He halted in the threshold, staring at the centerpiece in the middle of the gym. "Wow," he breathed.

"Isn't it cool?" Brittany asked, tugging at his arm.

"What are you doing here?" a new voice demanded. Santana sauntered into the room decked out in her full Cheerios' uniform, eyeing him mistrustfully before turning her attention to Brittany. "Britt, we don't let boys see the cannon."

"But we sang with him," Brittany protested, her shoulders slouching as she pouted. "Isn't he like a Cheerio now?"

Blaine choked. "Uh, Brittany, I'm not--"

"No," Santana snapped before he could. "He's not." She paused, arms folded as she surveyed the two of them in the threshold before sighing. "All right, hobbit, I'll give you a break this time, but if I catch you on Cheerio grounds again, I will end you."

Blaine nodded. "Understood," he assured. "Won't happen again."

Brittany squeezed his arm reassuringly and Santana stared at him, silently appraising.

"Do you want to try it out?" Brittany asked at last, gesturing to the cannon.

Blaine stared at it and then her. "I'm, uh, I'm good," he assured when he realized that she was serious. "I'll just go find Kurt--"

"Hold up, hobbit," Santana interrupted, sidling closer until she was almost nose-to-nose with him. Blaine found the view rather unnerving, knowing how easy it would be for her to hike up a knee straight into his groin. "You can't tell anyone about this. This is top secret Cheerio information, and if I catch anyone around whispering about the cannon revival, I will know exactly whose balls I have to cut off. So don't mess with us, or I will make you suffer."

Blaine nodded again, shuffling back slightly. "Of course," he said simply. "Will do. Won't. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Santana rolled her eyes, turning around and walking off. "See that you don't," she called back, letting the gym door slam shut behind her.

"I think she likes you," Brittany said brightly.

Blaine made a slightly strangled sound and said nothing. "Right," he agreed.

At least Brittany didn't seem to mind the sarcasm.

* * *

Living on the outskirts of Westerville, Ohio was definitely one of the downsides to attending McKinley.

Blaine commuted close to an hour daily just to get to McKinley. Boarding at Dalton had spared him the necessity of transportation, given the fact that he boarded in the dorms with most of the other boys. McKinley was a different story, and Blaine could feel some of his enthusiasm waning in the face of constant lengthy drives between the two places. Yawning into the palm of his hand, Blaine checked the dashboard of his car and noted that it was just after six o'clock. Right on schedule.

After four mornings of getting up before sunrise, the strain of driving between the two locations was quickly becoming tedious. He did have a sleepover with Kurt at the Hummel-Hudson house to look forward to that weekend, but in order to reach that point, he had to survive the intervening time. The mounting cost of driving back and forth was more than a test of mental endurance; it was taxing on his mileage. He wouldn't let Kurt know, of course, because he didn't want the added stress ruining his boyfriend's magical senior year, but he couldn't help but wallow in a little self pity as he made the morning drive over on Friday.

Upping the volume on his radio in a vague attempt to pull himself out of his early morning drowsiness, Blaine somehow managed to make it to the McKinley High parking lot before seven. With a stifled groan, he climbed out of his red Jeep and shouldered his satchel, shutting the door behind him. He loathed waking up early in the first place -- Dalton had spoiled him, since he could sleep in until almost nine on most school days and still be on time -- but doing it to make a long drive to school was not something that he had considered seriously enough, because there was no way that it was worth it.

"Gotcha," a voice declared happily as a pair of arms wrapped around his waist from behind, a warm cheek nuzzling against the back of his neck. "Good morning. How are we?"

Blaine yawned and batted absently at Kurt's hand as it ruffled his hair. "Is it the weekend yet?" he muttered, walking forward with Kurt in tow. The latter reluctantly loosened his grip and settled for interlacing their fingers as he staggered through the parking lot, not fully awake yet.

"One more day," Kurt said bracingly.

"Mmph," Blaine grunted noncommittally.

"There you are!" a voice chirped. Seconds later, Rachel appeared, looking excited. "I have the perfect audition for the Maria part planned. It's practically mine already, but--"

"I don't know," Kurt put in wryly, tugging Blaine along when he slowed to a glacial pace. "Mercedes said she was going to audition, too."

"Well," Rachel huffed, even though she sounded too eager to be genuinely annoyed. "If she wants to be competitive, then I'll just have to show her what exceptional talent really looks like."

"Do I have math this morning? I thought I did, but now I can't remember," Blaine asked, scratching the back of his neck.

"No, you have economics. And I'm proud of you for regaining your confidence, Rachel, but don't you think you should maybe be directing your talents at the real competition?"

"Like who?" Rachel asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Kurt rolled his eyes and continued to tow Blaine along. "Like the people from NYADA."

For a moment, it looked like Rachel would freeze up, but then she straightened even more (if possible) and said in her best 'I'm amazing and I know it' voice, "They won't know what hit them."

"As long as you're sure," Kurt murmured, sounding skeptical, before tugging on Blaine's arm a third time as he ground to a near halt. "Come on, Warbler, classes are still held inside the building."

"I haven't had any coffee," Blaine sulked. "Be nice to me."

"Whatever you say, Blaine," Kurt said, apparently unable to stop the grin from crossing his face as he pushed the doors open and dragged Blaine along after him.

Classes were miserable, mostly on account of the fact that Blaine couldn't keep his eyes open for first or second period. By the time lunch rolled around, he hadn't even opened a notebook. Despite his initial curiosity about how strict the teachers were at McKinley, Blaine was both surprised and not at how lax they were. Neither his economics nor his English teacher had raised a word in protest when he slept through both their classes. Whether it was because they took pity on him or were so used to it that they didn't bother fighting a losing battle, he didn't know.

Feeling a little more alive courtesy of the impromptu naps by lunch, Blaine felt that he could actually manage a conversation without dropping off halfway through it.

Sitting beside Tina and Artie, Blaine listened as they detailed plans for recruiting new members, his mind still oriented on the issue of transportation.

One of the conditions that his parents had agreed on when deliberating the matter of his transfer was that he would provide his own rides. Although inwardly concerned about the issue, he had presented the same cool confidence that he usually used to win over most arguments, and he successfully convinced both of them that it wouldn't be an issue. It's not that far. It doesn't take that long. I've done it plenty of times before. It's fine. . . .

"Not a pillow," Artie interrupted suddenly, wheeling back as Blaine's head dropped listlessly onto his shoulder.

The former Warbler lifted his head and muttered an apology, rubbing at the back of his neck halfheartedly. "I'll be your pillow," Brittany offered, squeezing between Artie and him and smiling invitingly.

"I'm good," Blaine mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What are we talking about?"

"New members," Tina said, sighing. "You haven't missed anything. We still can't think of anyone."

"Maybe we could give Sugar a chance?" he suggested without much hope.

"No," the group answered as one.

* * *

Kurt smiled sympathetically as his boyfriend stepped into the choir room, immediately sitting down in the seat beside him in the top row. Since Quinn and Santana had left, it was only Blaine and he up there, the rest of the New Directions scattered throughout the middle rows. Kurt let his eyes roam over them briefly before returning his gaze to Blaine, who looked mostly out of it. He didn't have dark circles around his eyes, but there was a definite slowness about him that wasn't very Blaine-like.

"Still not awake?" he asked as Mr. Schue emerged from his office, brow furrowed and jaw set.

Blaine shook his head wordlessly in response. "Is it the weekend yet?" he asked in a yawn.

"Close," Kurt encouraged, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "Just Glee left."

"Mmph."

"So verbose."

Blaine dropped his head onto Kurt's shoulder. "You're mean."

"I'm honest," Kurt retorted, nudging him back upright. "Come on. You can do it. Forty minutes."

Blaine groaned as he lifted his head again. "You owe me," he muttered.

"For what?"

Grumbling something indistinct, Blaine leaned back in his seat and waved a hand. "Something," he said elusively.

Kurt's lips quirked in a little smile.

"All right, guys," Schuester said, clapping his hands together. "Let's talk invitationals."


	3. Chapter 3

"Wes, I need your help."

The former Warbler set his physics book down on the table and looked up at Blaine in surprise, an expression of mingled interest and exasperation on his face. "Please tell me this isn't about Kurt," he said, the exasperated look turning briefly pained. "I thought you two had everything sorted out now."

"Well," Blaine hedged, taking a seat in front of him at the courtyard table, "it's not exactly about him."

Wes groaned, shutting his book and shaking his head. "What are you going to do when I leave for college?" he asked, a familiar hint of stress lacing his voice. In four more weeks, he would be shipped off to the University of Virginia, his dream school since childhood. Working in his favor was his mother's alumna, but ultimately, his own formidable transcript and excellent performance on his standardized aptitude tests had won over the admissions' panel and gotten him the 'congratulations' letter that he'd been longing to receive since freshman year. Despite making it into his dream school, their summer had been fraught with mild panic attacks and borderline nervous breakdowns as Wes alternated between being thrilled about his acceptance and convinced that he couldn't make it as a UVA student.

"You'll be fine," Blaine had assured on more than one occasion while purposefully keeping Wes away from anything even remotely dangerous. "You were born for a law school, Wes."

"I can't do this," Wes would insist, more discomposed than Blaine had ever seen him before. (Which was a rather amusing sight, considering the fact that the Warbler still insisted on wearing a blazer and tie even while he was almost to the point of tearing his own hair out. It was also a refreshing change from Blaine being the one to be fretting about something, whether it was making it into the Warblers or simply how to handle his relationship with Kurt.) "I shouldn't have--"

"Yes, you should have," Blaine countered, and once the worrying was over, they both knew it was true. From the minute that he had joined the Warblers' council during Blaine's junior year, Wes had adopted the gavel and head seat like a natural, mediating and arguing in equal parts, always available for insight.

Folding his fingers, the former head added pointedly, "I won't be around for consultation once I leave, you know."

"That's kind of what this is about, actually," Blaine said. Wes' eyebrows arched as he lifted his gaze once more, meeting Blaine's.

"I don't understand," he said simply.

Blaine knew that it was an effort for the former Warbler to admit as much; Wes never conceded defeat, unless there was no other option available to him. He had once continued an argument with David for two weeks before grudgingly admitting that maybe they could shift from eight-part to six-part harmony in order to create a stronger sound at invitationals during Blaine's first year. For the next two years, living under Wes's gavel had been the equivalent of enrolling in boot camp, without the benefit of being outdoors. At least Dalton's beauty compensated for the long hours spent indoors, plotting endlessly about competitions.

It was wearing. Even though Blaine was all for giving the competitions his best, he felt that the more laid-back environment that Kurt had described at McKinley was worth taking notes on. There was only so much focus that one person could sustain before a keen and almost painful desire for a recreation break ensued. Blaine was usually one of the first to voice a protest about having yet another unnecessary meeting to discuss harmonies and song selections.

Despite his protests that it lead to a biased group, Blaine had soon adjusted to his unintended role of leadership, gladly utilizing his authority to override Wes and David when it came to how often they should schedule Warbler practices. Given their way, the duo would likely have scheduled practices every hour that the group had free, which -- despite finals -- was still substantial enough that Blaine had been forced to step in and make an executive decision. They couldn't outdo themselves at practices only to collapse at actual competitions from exhaustion. Thus, the careful balance between practice time, study time, and free time had been achieved.

Of course, the latter was practically nonexistent, even more so as Blaine had approached the end of his junior year. Finals were more difficult than ever, a combination of trying to beef up transcripts and ensure that students would enter reputable colleges. Part of Dalton's prestige related directly to the high percentage of students that went off to attend good colleges. Some even made it Ivy League, an impressive feat for anyone living in Ohio.

"Blaine?"

Wes was looking at him doubtfully, one hand perched on the edge of his binder expectantly as though he was eager to return to it. Which, Blaine thought guiltily, he probably was, but that day his mind seemed to be everywhere. Despite his best efforts to appear focused, Blaine knew that his thoughts were frazzled, largely due to the fact that Kurt had proposed that he come to McKinley instead of enrolling back at Dalton for his senior year. It was a thought that was both intriguing and alarming, and definitely something that he needed Wes's advice on.

Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, Blaine said quickly, "Kurt wants me to transfer to McKinley," and waited for the reaction.

"You can't," Wes said at once. Then, visibly restraining himself from naming all the reasons that it was impossible, Wes added more generously, "The Warblers need you, Blaine."

"I know, but. . . ." Blaine gesticulated with a hand airily, grasping at more coherent thoughts. "Next year isn't going to be easy. Most of you have already graduated. David, Thad, Cameron, you. . . ." Blaine shrugged, the hollowness at the thought of being one of the last of his class of Warblers engulfing him. "Everyone's leaving," he said at last. "Why shouldn't I be allowed to transfer?"

"All the more reason to stay," Wes retorted, his voice neither biting nor argumentative. "They'll need you more than ever, Blaine."

"Maybe this is a good time to showcase other talents," Blaine suggested. "Jeff's always been interested in soloing, and I'm sure Nick wouldn't pass up the opportunity for some of the spotlight, either. I've monopolized the system, Wes. Maybe it'll help the team if I back down."

"They need leadership," Wes said in his ruler-of-the-universe tone. "They need someone who has previous experience in a position of authority. As of now, you are the senior most member of the Warblers."

Blaine sighed, looking over at Wes seriously. "I just . . . I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I love Dalton. I love the Warblers. I love being a Warbler, but I also want . . . I want to be with Kurt. I don't want to spend my entire senior year considering what it would have been like if I'd transferred to McKinley instead." He shrugged once, helplessly. "Any sage advice?"

Wes's brow smoothed as he thought, the familiarly pensive expression bringing a pang to Blaine's chest as he realized that all too soon, he wouldn't be able to see Wes. At all.

"Could you accept being at Dalton if the Warblers didn't win competitions?" he asked. "If the Warblers weren't an issue, would you rather be at Dalton or McKinley?"

"McKinley," he said simply, his voice quieter than he had anticipated, Wes' gaze fastened immovably on him. "I think I'd rather be at McKinley."

Wes inclined his head in a last gesture of resistance, and then he sighed and laid his hands flat on the table. Blaine was surprised to see a relieved expression on his face, as though the effort had cost him more than he let on. With a mental shrug, Blaine tucked it away as one of those instances he would never fully understand.

"Then you should transfer," was all he said.

* * *

Blaine felt like he had betrayed something.

Kurt, himself, Wes, David.

Maybe it wasn't just something, he amended as he shouldered his satchel and pushed open the doors to the Warblers' hall. Maybe it was everyone.

He had told Kurt that he was still undecided the last time that they had been out for coffee. Despite his best efforts to be more conclusive about the issue, he couldn't help straying back to the comforts that Dalton provided. The inner adventurer inside him was pitching a fit, making him feel guilty whenever he looked at the enrollment papers that signified his return to Dalton. He wanted something new, something different, and the more that he thought about it, the more that he realized that the only way that he could be satisfied would be to change up his routine.

Yet there he was in his Warbler's uniform, still at Dalton, his first meeting back with the Warblers looming.

Gingerly, half-fearing that he would regret doing so, Blaine edged inside.

He recognized some of the faces immediately, including Nick and Jeff. His gaze swept over the room, his heart sinking as he saw just how few of the Warblers were ones that he remembered. The entire council table was empty, waiting for the Warblers to elect members to fill it, and Blaine felt another brief twinge as he realized that Wes, David, and Thad weren't coming back.

They were gone, and he was left.

"Hey, Blaine," Jeff said, noticing him for the first time, and Nick craned his neck around to look at him.

A ripple of silence followed his words, stifling the casual conversations that had been going on. The newest members, without even their badges to officially declare them Warblers, were staring at him, half awed, half uncertain. Most people at Dalton knew that Blaine was a bit of an anomaly. He was one of only a handful of people that had ever crossed the prestigious halls and taken a year twice, even if the first time was at another school. The fact that he was a year older than most of his peers had immediately established him as a topic of interest; his involvement and lead role with the Warblers had quickly elevated him to the status of near demigod among the lower classes.

Clearing his throat roughly, swallowing back unwanted emotion at seeing so many unfamiliar faces, Blaine said, "I'm sorry for misleading you all, but this is only a temporary visit."

Outrage spread almost as quickly as the silence had, murmured conversations on the fringes of shouts erupting in every corner. Nick thumped Wes' old gavel hard on the table for order, leaning back in his chair in front when he was done. Blaine nodded at him gratefully.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I want you all to know that this is nothing personal against you. I have loved being a Warbler, but it's . . . it's not for me anymore. I'm sorry."

Then there was the hardest part, the moment that he had been dreading ever since making the decision official by signing the papers for his transfer with the McKinley principal. Blaine slowly unbuttoned his blazer and set it on the council's table, his fingers lingering on it perhaps a moment longer than necessary before he retreated. "Good luck," was all he said.

He walked out of the Warblers' hall for the final time, heart lodged in his throat.

* * *

"Welcome to McKinley, Mr. Anderson," Principal Figgins said, his accent heavy with pride as he handed Blaine his official schedule for the year. "We hope you will find your stay here most enjoyable."

"Thank you," Blaine said politely, his enthusiasm somewhat rekindled with the impending transfer finally completed. It had been hard returning home that night after saying goodbye to the Warblers, but thoughts of actually attending McKinley soon overwhelmed his doubts.

They're my friends, he had told Kurt.

Some of them are, Blaine conceded silently, idly perusing his schedule. But now most of them are gone and nothing's holding me back.

I want to be here. I want to be with Kurt.

Thanking Figgins again and stepping out of his office, Blaine made a beeline for the opposite end of the hall, his spirits brightening at the prospect of the imminent reveal of his bold new plan. Adjusting his bow tie a little, his yellow sunglasses still perched in his pocket, Blaine loped confidently down the halls, determined to make the best of it.

Goodbye, Dalton; hello, McKinley.


	4. Chapter 4

"The key to any good bread is moisture," Kurt said. "Too much and it's soggy; not enough and it's stale." He tapped his fingers along the counter top as he waited for the buzzer to go off, one oven mitt already on his hand.

"Mmmhmm," Blaine hummed, more partial to tasting Kurt's creations than learning the chief-like know-how behind them. He was sitting on the island itself, a habit which Kurt blamed on the same 'furniture-climbing' addiction that Blaine had. Kurt's explanation for it all was a deep-seated self-loathing of his height, which Blaine had rolled his eyes at before haughtily stating that furniture was simply inviting itself to be climbed on. There were no rules against it, and whenever there were no rules specifically against something, that inner rebel within him had to find some outlet. Blaine, being charming on most occasions, was clearly destined for such propensities, given his otherwise proper behavior.

"I can't help it," he would say with a shrug, idly standing on top of the back of the couch just to irk Kurt a little. "I'm repressed. This is me expressing myself."

"Could you express yourself without getting mud stains on my furniture?" Kurt asked, poking his shin pointedly and gesturing to his feet.

Blaine actually looked down at his sock-clad feet, already prepared to apologize, before scowling as he realized that he was wearing socks anyway. "Ha ha," he'd said, hopping down and following Kurt into the kitchen.

Which lead to them now, Kurt baking banana bread in preparation for tonight's sleepover. Finn was out in the backyard practicing football throws with Puck, who had come over without invitation to vent some first-week-back-at-school steam. Neither Kurt nor Blaine minded, and Finn was happy to have someone around who wouldn't end up acting 'couple-y,' and so the arrangement had been settled and Blaine was left to stew in delicious torment as the smell of banana bread wafted from the oven.

It's done enough, his irrational side sulked. It doesn't need to be perfect to be delicious.

Kurt won't let you eat it unless it's perfect, his rational side reminded.

Blaine mentally harrumphed. Go away, he told rationality, which was clearly a sign that he was going insane, but otherwise not very important as Kurt was finally inching the oven door open. Leaning forward, Blaine perched on the edge of the counter, waiting for the reveal eagerly.

"All right," Kurt said, gingerly easing the pan out of the oven. "I think it's done."

"Finally," Blaine breathed, hopping down from the counter with a grin.

"Uh uh," Kurt protested, swatting at his hand once he'd set the pan on the counter. "Don't touch. It needs to sit for a while."

Blaine groaned loudly. "Kuuurt."

"No."

Blaine sighed. Ushering him with his oven mitt, Kurt prodded him out of the kitchen.

"I don't like you anymore," Blaine sulked. "You tease me with delicious food and then don't let me eat it."

"You're such a Finn," Kurt retorted. "Was dating me purely an excuse to get to my cooking?" he added in a mock-horrified tone.

Blaine tapped a finger to his lips in mock consideration as Kurt pushed him towards the stairs. "Maybe," he said slyly.

Kurt bopped him on the head with an oven mitt. "Try again," he suggested in a falsely light tone.

"Um . . . no?"

"Blaine."

"I'm kidding!" Blaine assured as Kurt smacked him with the oven mitt again.

"Of course you are, Anderson. Just keep walking."

* * *

It was a win-win situation, Blaine thought. He got delicious banana bread, Kurt got the satisfaction of knowing that he was the best banana bread-maker ever, and both were able to relax out in the backyard.

"I still can't believe you transferred," Kurt mused as Blaine brushed a few lingering breadcrumbs off his jacket.

"Hmm?" he asked, mouth still full of bread. Kurt threw him a warning look. Blaine swallowed and added, "I know. It's . . . different." Taking another bite, he shrugged. "I'm happy with it, though. I mean, I wouldn't hate being at Dalton, but. . . ." He waved a hand vaguely. "I made an executive decision, and this is the result. I'm not going back on it now."

"I don't think you could," Kurt said teasingly. "Don't they ban you for life once you quit the Warblers?"

"Oh, no, they just put you in the gas chamber. I'm actually a mutant version of your boyfriend with inexplicable cravings for banana bread," Blaine said matter-of-factly. "No, they don't. But not many people go back. It's hard on everyone when someone leaves." He shifted uncomfortably, rather unpleasantly reminded that he had not only left the Warblers but done it for a reason that wasn't unavoidable. If he had been graduating, then there would have been no issue of it. Because he was simply transferring schools, however, he became something of a traitor to them.

He frowned as he thought of that, plucking another bite of banana bread off to excuse himself from talking.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked, his expression mildly concerned as he looked at Blaine. "You look paler."

Blaine shrugged. "I just . . . I'm against the Warblers now." Saying it aloud put a sour taste in his mouth. "Just . . . Kurt, I'll be competing against them."

Kurt shifted so that Blaine was sitting directly beside him on the little patio-like porch. Their thighs and shoulders touched, creating a warmth that helped ward off some of the night chill as well as relax Blaine a little. He hadn't even realized just how tense he had gotten until most of it drained out of his shoulders, leaving him feeling more clear-headed and less on the verge of panic.

"I'm okay," he said softly. "I just . . . those guys are my friends. Could you compete against your friends?" Kurt gave him a Did you really just ask that? look which immediately put Blaine on the defensive. "Oh, no, Kurt, I didn't mean it like that, I'm so sorry--"

"You don't need to apologize," Kurt assured, but his tone was still a little wounded. Blaine opened his mouth to say something else, but Kurt beat him to the point. "There's no point in dwelling on that now that I'm back with them, is there?"

"No," Blaine said, but they both knew that he wouldn't be returning to the Warblers.

A long silence ensued during which neither Kurt nor Blaine seemed to know what to say. At last, Blaine simply put his hand on Kurt's knee, and Kurt covered it with his own and they sat like that, the tension replaced by companionable quiet.

"All right, boys, dinner's ready!" Carole called from the kitchen, startling them out of their reverie.

Blaine lifted himself stiffly to his feet, his legs having fallen asleep. Kurt was stamping his feet a little as though suffering the same problem, a rueful smile on his lips. Romantic, but not exactly the most pragmatic position to be in. Nevertheless, Blaine was grateful for the reprieve, even if the pins-and-needles sensation in his legs was nothing short of dreadful.

"It looks wonderful, Carole," Blaine said, following Kurt into the kitchen and taking in the sight of the lasagna.

Carole smiled at him, patting his arm in passing as she corrected Finn's arrangement of the silverware at the table. "Thanks, Blaine. Burt won't be back until seven or so -- he had a late run -- so we can just eat."

Finn trudged back into the kitchen before she had finished speaking, looking hungrily from the plate of lasagna to the bowls of bread sticks and salad. "Now?" he asked, in a voice that clearly said he had already posed the question at least a dozen times before.

Carole shook her head at him, a slight smile quirking the edges of her lips regardless. "Yes," she answered.

"See, told you you were turning into Finn," Kurt muttered pointedly to Blaine, who feigned momentary deafness as he picked up a plate and began filling it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said loftily.

Kurt elbowed him in the side. "Of course you don't."

* * *

"How many of those do you have?" Blaine asked, watching in disbelief as Kurt worked on his nightly moisturizing routine.

Kurt rolled his eyes at his mirror, rubbing the moisturizer into his cheeks. "I like healthy skin. Wrinkles are gross."

"Kurt, you're seventeen," Blaine reminded, his feet propped up behind him as he lay on his stomach. Kurt couldn't help the slight smile that twitched at the corners of his lips. For all that he acted like a boy during the day, that pose was so girly that Kurt had barely been able to stifle a laugh when he first saw Blaine lying that way. Accompanied with the red plaid pajamas, Kurt half-feared he would choke himself just resisting the urge to laugh, something that he definitely didn't think would help as it might offend Blaine enough to leave.

Not likely, he thought cheerfully, continuing to watch Blaine stare at him from the corner of his eye. "Staring's rude," he added, using first-grade logic, since he was staring at Blaine somewhat, too.

Blaine grunted and looked pointedly down at his nails, apparently disinterested. "I'm not staring," he said breezily. "I'm admiring the scenery."

"Oh, really? And is my bedroom that interesting?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and flopped over onto his back. "Come on. Movie marathon time. Moisturize later."

"I won't remember later," Kurt said. Then he blushed at the inherent implication in those words, even though he knew that the most scandalous thing he and Blaine would do was cuddle. And, really, did 'scandalous' and 'cuddle' even fit in the same sentence? He thought not. "I have a routine to stick to," he added, stubbornly refusing to give over to his brief embarassment.

Blaine tilted his head back a little to look at him upside-down. Oh, stop being adorable, Kurt thought, rolling his eyes away from him so he could focus on the task at hand. "Kurt, you're blushing," he said with a wide grin identical to the one he had had when they were practicing 'sexy faces' in Kurt's Dalton dorm room.

And now Kurt was thinking of them practicing sexy faces in his Dalton dorm room, and that was easily one of his most mortifying experiences. Was there anything less attractive than trying to be sexy?

"Please put away the fancy moisturizers and come over here?"

"No," Kurt said, grateful for the excuse to pull his thoughts away from sexy faces. "You may be cute, but you're not worth my wrinkly skin."

Blaine wrinkled his nose. "You wouldn't even get wrinkles until you were ninety. And I don't think you've ever been sunburned or even tan, so I'm sure you won't even get wrinkles . . . so why bother worry so much?"

"My skin must be flawless," Kurt said simply, capping his last bottle and swiveling around. "There. Done."

"Yay," Blaine said without inflection.

"Scoot over," Kurt ordered as he stood up from his vanity.

Blaine shook his head. "This is the price for spending so much time with the vanity."

"Anderson. Scoot. Over."

"No," Blaine insisted.

"All right. I warned you." Kurt reached over and grabbed his legs, ignoring Blaine's halfhearted attempts to kick free and then more frantic efforts as Kurt dragged him towards the end of the bed.

"Give in?" he asked, Blaine's body balanced precariously between the end of the bed and the floor.

Blaine still shook his head. "Never," he said stoutly.

Kurt shrugged and gave one last tug.

"Hey!" Blaine yelped, landing with a muffled squawk on the floor. Kurt burst into laughter, Carole's call of 'Everything all right up there?' answered with a wheezy assurance that everything was fine.

"Worst -- boyfriend -- ever," Blaine groaned.

"You stole my bed," Kurt said simply, leaping nimbly over him onto his bed. "Now, get up here, unless you don't want to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's."

For just having been pulled off a bed, Blaine was still surprisingly agile as he scrambled up beside him. Kurt powered up his laptop and set it between them, clicking through the settings until he reached video and settled back to watch.

Blaine rested his head casually on Kurt's shoulder, a cheeky grin on his face. Kurt held back a secret smile as he watched the movie, running his fingers lightly over Blaine's side in response. The warmth and softness were all so enticing that Kurt was fairly certain if offered, he would have given up the world to stay like this forever.

Before the movie had even reached the half-hour mark, Blaine was snoring lightly, drooping more against his side than earlier. Shuffling around until he was comfortably reclining against the stacked pillows and Blaine was curled up against his side, Kurt couldn't help but smiling broadly in return.

Oh, yes, this was definitely why it was nice to finally have a boyfriend.

* * *

"It's definitely your color," Kurt mused, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side. He had dragged Blaine out to the mall as soon as he had finished breakfast, haranguing him that he had to have some fashionable clothes if he wanted to be his boyfriend at McKinley. Blaine had asked if he would break up with him if he didn't, to which Kurt's answer was a resounding yes. Grumbling about insensitive boyfriends and the like, Blaine had yielded and driven them to the mall where Kurt had promptly dragged him off for dress-up.

"How many pairs of jeans do I have to try on?" Blaine asked, tucking his hands in the pockets. He should do that more often, Kurt's subconscious contributed helpfully.

Stop it, he berated himself.

"Until we find the right pair." He spent several long moments in silence, appraising, before waving a hand dismissively in the air, his other one balancing a cup of coffee on his knee. "Next."

Blaine sighed and trudged back into the changing stall, Kurt allowing himself a tiny smile of amusement as he did so. He was sitting cross-legged on one of the cushioned arm-less benches, surrounded by a variety of shoes that were all too plebeian to suit his interests. He could put Blaine in commonplace material if he must, but he himself wouldn't be caught dead or alive with anything less than designer wear.

"This is ridiculous," Blaine huffed from behind the closed door. "They all fit. Why can't you just pick one?"

"Because, Blaine, I have to suffice with mediocre brands to begin with, and I will not degrade my standards further by choosing something that isn't perfect," Kurt retorted, sipping his coffee. "And stop complaining. I've barely made you try on anything."

"This is the twelfth pair!"

"Hardly anything," Kurt repeated, nursing his cup in one hand. "Come on, the sooner you come out the sooner we can move on."

"More like the sooner you can criticize another perfectly good pair," Blaine grumbled, but nevertheless obliged.

Kurt's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise at how well he liked this new pair. They hugged his legs in all the right places, not to the level of skinny jeans (which Kurt had forced him to accept, even if Blaine adamantly refused to buy them) but more loose fitting at certain angles. Kurt put on his critic's eye and looked at the light-blue wash jeans with the same scrutiny he had the others, Blaine walking back off towards the stall before he had even given his report.

"Hey," he interrupted. Blaine paused, one hand on the door.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Blaine lifted his eyebrows in mock consideration. "Have I so offended you with these jeans they now require punishment?"

Kurt flushed a little, exasperated at his antics, before shaking his head. "Those are good," he said, and Blaine's entire visage changed. He visibly relaxed, seeming pleased. Kurt decided that perhaps a break was needed to keep his good spirits up.

At least Blaine was a good sport about shopping. He had seen Finn's reactions firsthand when Rachel had dragged him out to be bag carrier on various shopping sprees. Finn was loyal enough that he endured it for two hours before throwing in the towel. Blaine actually let Kurt pick out clothes for him and tried them on.

"Ready?" Blaine asked, back in the original black pants he'd been wearing when they entered the shop. Coupled with the light gray jacket over his white shirt, it was a tasteful homage to a monochromatic palette. Of course, Blaine needed color, too, so that Kurt could vary his wardrobe. Jean shopping was a legitimate concern of Kurt's, but Blaine had also almost hit the nail on the head when he teasingly said, "You just like looking at my legs."

Kurt's phone vibrated before he could respond to Blaine's re-emergence, and he slid it out of his pocket and tapped the screen to look at the new message. At the Lima Bean with Marcus. Join us? :)

Kurt smiled back and wrote, Ten minutes, before setting it down again.

"So?" Blaine asked, holding up the rejects. Kurt rolled his eyes as he stood up, pocketed his phone, and set them down on the counter for the staff to handle. He tossed Blaine the one 'good' pair, smiling slightly to himself.

"That was Mercedes. She's at the Lima Bean with her boyfriend and wants us to come over."

Blaine's expression was so relieved that Kurt laughed before he could help himself. "Trying on clothes isn't that horrible," he chided lightly.

"Easy for you to say," Blaine huffed.

* * *

"Marcus, this is Kurt's beau, Blaine," Mercedes introduced.

Marcus was roughly the equivalent of four Blaines in size, a half-giant that made Finn seem like a twig. He was solidly built and a football player. Fortunately for them, he was also Mercedes' boyfriend of four months.

"Nice to meet you, Blaine," he said, inclining his head from his seat.

Kurt saw Blaine sizing Marcus up with evident trepidation as he delicately took his seat, completely forgetting to order any coffee. Rolling his eyes, Kurt gave Mercedes an affectionate smile before walking over to pick up their coffees, returning moments later with the steaming cups. He nudged Blaine's shoulder and handed it to him as he slid into the seat next to him with his own cup. Blaine smiled sheepishly, giving his knee a light squeeze under the table.

"So how've you two been? I feel like we haven't talked in forever," Kurt began, smiling apologetically at Mercedes.

She shrugged, still beaming at Marcus. "Oh, we've been wonderful, haven't we, baby?"

"Mmmhmm," Marcus rumbled. "Everything's been good with us. I was just down at your dad's car shop," he added, a slight smile crossing his face as he directed his attention to Kurt. "Said he'd love to give me a job around. Working part time on weekends."

"Really?" Kurt asked, surprised and a little indignant that his dad hadn't told him about this latest development. "When did you ask?"

"Oh, just this morning. I stopped by after 'Cedes here was telling me what a wonderful man your dad is and I thought, well, it never hurts to ask. And he said he could use another hand around the shop, so he hired me." He shrugged, an expression on his face that would have been called bashful on anyone who wasn't half-giant. "I appreciate it."

"He's been talking about wanting someone around," Kurt said, musing about how his dad had mentioned it just a few days ago. "I'm sure he's thrilled to have you."

"Yeah. 'Course, my priority is and always will be this girl here," he pointed out, patting Mercedes arm.

"Mmmhmm," Mercedes hummed doubtfully, a broad smile on her face. "So, boys, how's the shopping going?" she asked at last.

As though on command, Blaine took a long, slow sip from his coffee, excusing himself from answering. Kurt rolled his eyes at him and looked back at Mercedes pointedly as he answered.

"It's good! We got out early enough to beat the rush, but I don't think we'll be as lucky soon."

"Yeah, Berry's dropping by in about a half hour with Finn," Mercedes confided.

"Ugh," Kurt groaned. "Not only is that going to be awful because Finn wanted to have his Call of Duty marathon this morning, but I really don't want to deal with another Berry crisis right now."

In truth, Kurt knew that Rachel adored Blaine almost as much as Finn, and when Finn was being uncooperative, Blaine became the honorary 'gay boyfriend.' It was an arrangement that Kurt tolerated at best and openly disapproved on uncharitable occasions. Blaine was too polite to outright refuse Rachel's demands, and no matter how Kurt phrased it, it was hard to devise a solid reason that meant he and Blaine had to be far, far away from Rachel and do their own shopping instead.

Blaine didn't look annoyed at the news. Kurt mentally rolled his eyes as he realized that Blaine was probably thinking he could get out of the shopping trip now that Rachel was coming. If so, he was sadly mistaken.

"Keep us updated," Kurt told Mercedes, dragging Blaine to his feet. "Hopefully we'll keep out of her sight; if not, then. . . ." He shrugged, not wanting to say aloud the loathing he had for whenever Blaine was too polite for his own good.

"Sure thing. See you guys later."

Blaine lifted a hand in a morose goodbye, Kurt elbowing him lightly in the side. "It's not that bad," he said.

"Humph," Blaine said noncommittally.


	5. Chapter 5

"Harmony has been acting since she was a fetus."

Rachel shook her head, riffling through the rows of clothes with a detached interest. Finn had gratefully abandoned her to Kurt and Blaine as soon as she had spotted them. Despite their best efforts to avoid it, the duo soon found themselves listening to Rachel prattle on endlessly.

Kurt had an irked expression on his face that spoke volumes, one foot tapping airily as he sat in his chair, an eyebrow raised.

"I have to be bigger. More involved. This glee club does not have order," she said suddenly, whirling around to face them. Blaine instantly stopped picking at a nail and looked at her, somewhat disconcerted by the half-manic gleam in her eyes. "We need a president."

"We are not having a glee club president," Kurt interjected sternly. "Remember the last time that happened? Santana almost killed you."

"But she's not in glee club anymore," Rachel said, gaining momentum with every second, swelling with eagerness. "She got kicked out. And without Sam, Lauren, or Quinn to oppose . . . well, it's just Finn, Puck, Mike, Artie, you two, Brittany, Tina, Mercedes, and me." The manic gleam intensified to near blinding proportions; Blaine retreated a tiny step.

"I'm glad you're willing to try harder," Blaine hedged. Kurt sank an elbow in his ribs. Stop talking, you're going to make this worse. "But maybe you're overstepping a bit," he managed.

Rachel didn't notice; she'd already turned back so that she was facing the rest of the store, probably imagining the glee club under her control already. "Nice one," Kurt mouthed to him.

"Sorry," he replied silently, earning another elbow-in-the-ribs. "Mmph," he grunted aloud.

"I already told Mr. Schue that we couldn't let Sugar in, and he agreed," Rachel went on, practically bouncing as she moved suddenly towards the exit. Blaine hurried after her, Kurt following reluctantly behind them. "I practically run it already. Making it official . . . a leadership role like this could mean the difference between entering NYADA and not."

"So, you're saying that I have no hope unless I'm 'president of glee club'?" Kurt quipped.

Rachel ignored him.

"'President of the New Directions.' And, with my organizational skills, we could finally win nationals--"

"Because we did so well at that last year," Kurt interrupted.

Rachel flushed and stormed away, Kurt breathing out deeply in frustration. Blaine reached over and patted his arm slightly. "It'll be okay. She'll get over it."

Kurt huffed and folded his arms across his chest. "This is Rachel Berry we're talking about, Blaine. She's probably already flooding Mercedes with campaign slogans."

"Do you really think Puck, or Artie, or Mike, or even Tina would vote for her?"

"Maybe," Kurt sulked.

"She's tried it before and failed," Blaine continued. Of course, he hadn't personally seen the results of those brief escapades to gain power, but he was fairly certain that they hadn't ended very well. "I doubt it'll work this time."

"We do not need this kind of drama, though," Kurt said, walking briskly out of the store and into the warm, humid air. Blaine followed quickly, not wanting to be left behind while Kurt vented. "We're already on the fringe of being disqualified for invitationals due to a lack of members. We don't need Rachel stirring up the pot and causing even more trouble." He gestured violently with one hand, clearly agitated. "When will she ever learnthat no one wants her to be queen of the universe?"

Blaine paused, letting Kurt fume in silence for several moments, before asking gently, "Do you want to be president?"

"No," Kurt said flatly. "I don't want anyone to be president of anything."

"Unless it's class president," Blaine reminded.

Kurt stared ahead, unmoved. "Mr. Schue's busy dealing with Coach Sylvester," he went on. "Finn's wrapped around Rachel's finger, and Mike and Tina are so engrossed in their own clichÃ© Asian romance that I doubt they would care either way. Puck'll vote with Finn, even if he disagrees, and Artie'll go with Brittany because he won't want to be the outsider. Mercedes probably won't vote for her, but that's just one person."

"But no one actually wants her to be president," Blaine pointed out. He paused, then added: "Do they?"

"No." Kurt's voice was certain, and Blaine relaxed a little, grateful that he wasn't fighting a completely uphill battle.

"Then you have nothing to worry about," he assured, hopping into the driver's seat of the Jeep while Kurt did the same in the passenger's side. "No one's going to elect her 'president' of anything if they don't want her."

"You haven't seen Rachel Berry in action," Kurt said darkly. "She can get people to elect her whether they want to or not."

"I'm sure that won't be the case," Blaine said.

"Mmhmm," was all Kurt said.

* * *

"Mr. Schue, I have an announcement to make."

Here it comes, Kurt thought, outwardly stoic even if inwardly amazed at the latest Rachel Berry scheme to achieve power.

"Fellow glee clubbers," Rachel began, exactly as though she was running for a real presidential office (albeit one with only ten delegates to consider), "we have spent three years without any form of official leadership to aid in our pursuit of a national victory."

"Gee, wonder why," Mercedes said sarcastically, and Kurt could have kissed her for saying it. He couldn't say anything right now: it was the critical juncture where Rachel had to be told by other people that she wasn't the most brilliant person in the universe, not simply by the one who had originally contested it. "It wouldn't have anything to do with your whole Finchel moment last year, would it?"

Rachel's gaze remained surprisingly unaffected even though Finn shifted a little guiltily in his seat. 

"We need someone who can help organize our numbers formally. Last year, we waited until the last days before our nationals' competition to perform. We can't do that again this year or we won't stand a chance against teams like Vocal Adrenaline with our diminished forces."

"So you're suggesting . . . ?" Puck prompted, his voice dry and disinterested.

Rachel straightened. "We should elect a president. Someone who can keep our setlists in order and help preparations for the competitions. Of course, he -- or she -- wouldn't hold any official power over others, just the responsibilities it entails."

Silence. Kurt's gaze remained focused on Mr. Schue, waiting for his reaction, and he nearly choked when Mr. Schue said, "That's actually not a bad idea."

"What?" he croaked.

"Mr. Schue, you can't be serious," Mercedes added. "We don't need a 'president' to function. And I think this is just a chance for Berry to make a point."

Rachel didn't back down, looking back at all of them calmly. "Every other club in this school has a leader," she said. "Every team, every sport, every extracurricular activity. Isn't it time we finally caught on and elected one of our own?"

"One of our own being you," Tina put in bluntly.

"I will submit my name for the position," Rachel admitted. "However, it should and will be an open vote."

"I should totally be president," Brittany stage-whispered to Artie. "We could eat cheese fondue all day. Then we'd actually win nationals."

Kurt wrinkled his nose at the thought. Brittany's cheese fondue probably had enough of Lord Tubbington's fur mixed in to choke an elephant.

"This is completely against the theme of 'unity' you've been preaching about all year, Mr. Schue," Mercedes said loudly.

Mr. Schue, however, was still looking thoughtful, an expression that worried Kurt far more than his usual exasperated look would have. "I can only see you all for the short periods that we meet together here at school," he said. "That's not really enough time to prepare for our competitions. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have someone organizing things outside of school."

Rachel beamed; Kurt felt mildly ill. Blaine put his hand comfortingly on his knee and, before Kurt could warn him, spoke. "The Warblers don't have any form of 'president.'"

"But they didn't win regionals," Rachel retorted.

"And we're not the Warblers," Finn added sternly.

"I think it would be beneficial to all of us to try something new," Mr. Schue interrupted in his 'We're done with this conversation' tone. Kurt paled, knowing what was coming next. "It won't be a position of any real authority. Just something to put on a transcript."

Don't do it, Mr. Schue. This isn't going to work. . . .

"We'll hold elections on Friday. Submit your name during the week if you're interested and we'll see about it then. Now, invitationals. . . ."

Kurt didn't even bother listening after that. He just gritted his teeth in silent disbelief as Rachel pranced back over to her seat, stiff-backed and determined.

I don't even want to be president, Kurt thought, frustrated. But I don't want her to be it, either.

Oh, Mr. Schue, why can't you make decisions on your own?

* * *

"You're being quiet."

"No, I'm being passive-aggressive," Kurt said sarcastically, stabbing at his salad irritably. "Blaine, this is ridiculous. How could Mr. Schue even agree to holding an election? He has to know Rachel's going to win, and--"

"If everyone else submits their names," Blaine broke in, gently restraining his hand before he could mutilate the remains of his salad further, "then we won't have to worry about anyone getting elected. It'll be a tie."

"And if Finn votes for her?" Kurt demanded. "As he probably will?"

Blaine shrugged. "Then we just have to get creative with our voting."

"What do you mean?" Kurt laid his fork down on his plate to resist the temptation to pulverize his lettuce, Blaine's hand retreating once he realized that Kurt wasn't going to stab the leaves anymore.

"All we have to do is make sure everyone votes twice for someone."

Kurt frowned. "What?"

Blaine rolled his eyes, pushing his own tray aside and pulling out a piece of paper. He quickly tore it up into ten roughly equal pieces, laying them out in a general circle on the clear section of the table. "We have ten members, right? You, me, Rachel, Finn, Mercedes, Tina, Artie, Mike, Puck, and Brittany. Pretend this is Rachel," he said, pulling out a pen and writing a quick R in the middle of the paper. "She'll vote for herself." He dragged it over so that it was separated from the group, then focused on the rest. "Finn'll probably vote for her, too." He wrote a letter F on another slip and paired that with the R.

"However, we still have eight people to consider. You and I are both out." He quickly wrote K and W ("I don't want to confuse Brittany with Blaine, so I'll just use W for Warbler") on two slips and pushed those off to the side, away from the group and the Finn and Rachel pairing. "Which leaves Puck," he drew a P on one, "Brittany," B, "Mike," M, "Mercedes," C, "Artie," A, "and Tina," T.

Kurt stared at the slips, pursing his lips. "Okay. So we're out of the vote and we'll assume that Finn will definitely vote for Rachel. What happens then?"

Blaine smiled as he paired the letters together, P&B, M&C, A&T. "We get everyone else to vote for their partner. Four-way-tie."

Kurt lifted an eyebrow.

"Let's say that Puck and Brittany agree to vote for Brittany," Blaine said. "Brittany votes for herself, and Puck votes for her: they tie with Rachel. Same thing with Mike and Mercedes: Mike votes for Mercedes, Mercedes votes for herself, three-way-tie. Tina votes for Artie, Artie votes for himself--"

"Four-way-tie," Kurt breathed. He blinked at the slips of paper, divided into their groups, and shook his head in amazement. "Blaine Anderson, you have a delightfully unorthodox way of thinking."

"Thanks," Blaine said cheekily. "I'm glad we've come to that conclusion. Now, the difficult part is this: we have to convince the pairs to vote for one of their partners, and we have to guarantee that it happens, or we'll have a three-way-tie and there might be another vote. If we're going to sabotage this, we have to be effective on the first try."

"I never thought you would be one for sabotaging things," Kurt remarked wryly.

Blaine shrugged. "Consider it my inner rebel. I think that the sooner we get started, the better. I'll talk with Puck and Brittany, you talk with Mike and Mercedes."

Kurt smiled at him, relief and gratitude evident in his expression. "That's settled, then. We'll both talk to Artie and Tina tomorrow, and then hopefully by Friday the Glee Club President Election of 2011 will have officially been sunk."

"You have yourself a deal, Mr. Hummel."

* * *

"I'm not talking to you right now, hobbit."

That was the one factor that Blaine had not considered when he had set out to talk with Brittany and Puck: whether or not they would actually cooperate. The only time that he could find Puck when he wasn't around other jocks was just after football practice, and while Puck was probably ready to go home and thus in a worse mood than he might have been if he was less tired, Blaine didn't really have a choice.

"Just two minutes," he pleaded, following in Puck's trail as the senior walked towards the bleachers and exit.

"No," Puck retorted.

"Do you want Rachel Berry to be president of glee?" Blaine demanded.

"I am not electing you king of anything. Go away."

"I don't want to be president. But I don't think anyone wants Rachel to be it, either."

"Listen, midget, I don't know what it was like for you at your old prep school, but here at McKinley we stick together. And while Rachel pisses all of us off from time to time, she's a lot better at getting things together than you would be."

"I'm not interested in running for president," Blaine insisted, decidedly ignoring the rest of Puck's statement. He was hot and tired and angry, not exactly an ideal combination on any day. "I just don't think it would be productive for us to have a president."

"You don't think it would be productive?" Puck repeated. "Whatever, hobbit. Vote for whoever you want, I don't care.

He walked off the field before Blaine could get in another word edgewise, slamming the chain link fence behind him.

He sighed heavily and waited until Puck's footsteps faded before tugging open the gate and walking off. Part of him wondered why Puck and Finn were so belligerent. He had no intention to usurp anyone or, as Puck put it, become the 'king of anything,' but he also didn't want to be completely anonymous, either. He liked being a part of the action, a working member of the team, but it already seemed like they had decided that he wouldn't make a good member of their team at all.

Well, I'm not going anywhere, Blaine thought, steeling himself. So they'll just have to live with it.

* * *

"Sure, I'd vote for Mercedes," Mike said. Just as Kurt was about to breathe a sigh of relief that finally something was actually simple, he added, "if it wasn't for Tina."

"Mike, this isn't about your girlfriend," Kurt insisted, watching as Mike tossed a frisbee out to his dog. The Australian shepherd barked and raced after it, oblivious to their conversation or concerns. "This is about the fate of the entire glee club. Couldn't you sacrifice one measly vote for that?"

"Tina would find out and she'd kill me." He shrugged as though this was the only obvious answer, seeming a little surprised Kurt hadn't come to the conclusion on his own. "Maybe you just need to open up more to the idea of a president. I thought you wanted to be class president?"

"I do," Kurt said, vexed. "I just don't want the same controlling personality in glee club."

"You don't know Rachel will be elected," Mike reminded. "It could be Tina." He paused to bend down and wrestle the frisbee free from his dog, throwing it back out towards the yard and watching as he chased it down. "I think she'd make a good president," he went on. "She definitely knows how to keep things organized, and she said she'd be interested."

"But we don't need a president," Kurt pointed out. "Especially in glee. It'll just monopolize everything and ruin all of the supposed 'unity' Mr. Schue's been striving for."

"I think you're taking this too seriously," Mike said. "It's not the end of the world if we have a president."

Easy for you to say, Kurt thought. You're not trying to get into NYADA. Rachel is. And if she gets the presidency, she will make it her mission to get in there.

"I don't want to ruin the dynamic of our group in its final year as a group," Kurt stated, folding his arms.

"Tina's only a junior. She could stick around as president for next year, help rebuild it, you know?"

Kurt shook his head as the dog returned to Mike's side, turning around and saying, "I have to get back to my dad," before walking out. Mike waved a hand and offered a cheerful goodbye, but he still seemed less interested in the presidency than Kurt would have hoped.

No one cares, he thought despairingly. No one, except me and Rachel.

She cannot be elected glee club president. She can't.

But how do I stop her?


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm beginning to get the feeling that the glee guys hate me," Blaine said in a light voice as he flopped down onto his stomach on the grass.

Kurt scrunched up his face. "That's so dirty," he said, delicately sitting on the edge of the porch instead. "And what makes you say that?"

"Well, other than the fact that none of them will even make eye contact with me unless it's a total accident. . . ." Blaine shrugged. "I just get the vibe that they'd prefer to see me back with the Warblers rather than on their team. Which, I admit, is a little bizarre, since we're already down to ten members and basically need everyone we can get."

"And you're not a Sugar Motta," Kurt added, smiling at him. "You can sing."

"Why, thank you," Blaine said, feet kicked up behind him. "I try."

Kurt hummed, absentmindedly perusing one of the pamphlets about Julliard that he had picked up a couple years back. Although it had been his dream school for years, Ms. Pillsbury's revelation that it didn't have a musical theater department had somewhat dampened his interest in attending. Not completely doused it, he admitted, just subdued it a little.

With the NYADA creating more problems than ever in glee club, however, he was definitely leaning more towards Julliard. Despite his promise to Rachel that they would both get into NYADA, right then, if offered, he knew he would accept Julliard if it meant he could stop Rachel's rapid deterioration from 'bearable' to 'unbearable.'

Why does this always have to be so complicated? We sang on a Broadway stage together and that was perfect. Why can't it just be like that all the time?

A moment later, Kurt smiled a little, amused at his own innocence. Of course. We're like Broadway performers. We have to vie for the spotlight. Our lives are doomed to be dramatic.

"You're smiling. Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"I'm not sure yet," Kurt admitted. "Hopefully good."

"Mmm. Want to tell me what about?"

Kurt sighed, shutting his pamphlet and laying it on his knees. "Why can't this be easy, Blaine? Why can't we just coast like everyone else through our senior year with the most exciting thing being the results of our college applications?"

"To be honest, I still think that's going to be one of the most exciting things about this year," Blaine said in a musing voice. "But I know what you mean. And I don't know." He propped his head up on his head, facing outward, away from Kurt. "Maybe things were going too well for us and Murphy's law stepped in."

"Murphy's law needs to disappear," Kurt said uncharitably.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way."

"Then we need to change the rules."

Kurt could see Blaine smiling slightly from his perch. "You're welcome to try," he said lightly. "I would be impressed if you succeeded, but not unduly surprised."

There was a pause, during which Kurt wondered what to say next before he shook his head slightly. "Honestly, maybe we should just let this play out on its own."

Blaine actually rolled over and looked up at Kurt. "Are you giving up?" he asked, surprised.

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know. I just want this to be a good year and starting an argument with Rachel Berry doesn't seem like the best way to begin it. We're only in the second week of school and I'm already giving myself headaches over this." He rubbed his temples demonstratively. Blaine sat up, his hair slightly mussed up from the grass.

"We don't have to fight her on it," he said softly. "I don't want you stressing out about it."

"It's fine," Kurt sighed, waving his hand. "I mean, not really. . . . Rachel as president of glee club? She's been trying to win over that particular office since she first joined, and trust me, it was not fun when she tried to take over."

"Maybe it won't be bad, if she's elected and Schuester supervises," Blaine suggested.

Kurt harrumphed. "And maybe the moon is made of moldy cheese."

Blaine held up his hands innocently. "Just saying."

"I know you are," Kurt said, sighing deeply. "I just wish this was easier. Aren't things supposed to be easier now? No Karofsky, no bullying, no more dual glee clubs. . . ."

"Where is Karofsky, anyway?"

Kurt shrugged. "No idea. Rumor said he left the state, but the same gossip-mongers said that his parents owned a share of the Bermuda Triangle."

"Mm. So AWOL?"

"AWOL," Kurt agreed.

He was inwardly glad that Karofsky had vanished from the picture, even if it did depress him in a weird sort of way. He had been close, he knew, to getting Dave out of the closet, yet just when it seemed like he would take the next step and come out to some people, Dave had vanished. Maybe he really had left the state; maybe his parents really did own a portion of the Bermuda Triangle. Either way, Kurt had wanted to make a difference, and when it came to Dave Karofsky, he felt like the only change was that he no longer had contact with him.

He's not your problem, he told himself.

I wasn't Blaine's problem, the tiny, rebellious voice within him protested. He didn't have to do anything for me, either.

Yes, but he also wasn't a homophobe hiding in the closet.

"And now you're frowning."

Kurt frowned more noticeably as Blaine's words registered, blinking out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said. "Lost myself in thought a little."

"Mmm," Blaine said, his eyes opaque. It was one of those rare expressions behind which Blaine could utterly conceal his emotions behind: shutters that had no gaps to see the truth behind. Blaine couldn't lie or pretend to be happy when he wasn't, but he could also close off unwanted feelings when he really wanted to, even if the resultant look wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

Kurt didn't like it. It meant something was bothering him, and bothering him enough that he felt like he couldn't share it with Kurt. Which was an alarming thought, indeed.

Still, Kurt didn't ask, somehow knowing that Blaine wouldn't answer anyway. He could be evasive when he wanted to, even if he couldn't pull off lies. They could talk in circles, or he could change the subject, and so Kurt opted for the latter.

"At least I still have my class presidency to consider."

The shutters lifted, a flicker of something like frustration passing over Blaine's face before it was replaced by a grin. "Have you figured out the specifics of your campaign yet?"

"Other than my sheer fabulousness? No."

"Then come on. We need to start strategizing," Blaine said, hopping to his feet and hauling Kurt to his own. "Besides, I think it's supposed to rain pretty soon, and I don't know about you but I have no intention of getting rained on."

Kurt wrinkled his nose and looked at the sky, which was admittedly a shade of steel gray that definitely forewarned rain. "Lead the way," he said, gesturing dramatically towards the back door, while Blaine grinned and obliged.

They were hoarded in Kurt's bedroom within minutes, the door left open so that Burt wouldn't have to scold them.

'Strategizing' quickly turned to mindless gossip which faded away to chatter about various things, eventually resolving to a comfortable silence while Blaine watched the rain pour down and Kurt doodled in French on his binder. Blaine's head was resting on Kurt's stomach, his legs crossed comfortably as he lounged beside him. Kurt couldn't help the slight smile that spread across his face.

There were still moments like these, he mused, that helped him cope with the rest of the insanity in his life. Moments of quiet serenity that made him feel like he could survive in the long run and emerge a better person from this all some how. That he wouldn't be forever confined to this singularly mundane reality, but rather he could live in a completely different world with Blaine as well, one where there were no Rachel Berrys or glee problems or social prejudices to interrupt him.

It was just him and Blaine, and it was right.

At last, small enough that he knew no one but himself would be able to find, he wrote one last phrase before shutting the notebook.

Je t'adore.

* * *

"You look sad."

"I'm just thinking really hard."

"Maybe you should try thinking less. That's what I always do when I'm sad," Brittany said.

Kurt sighed. He knew that Brittany had all the best intentions at mind (or, at least, she usually thought she did, even if those intentions were to assist in the burning of a purple piano), but sometimes, even her quirky advice could do nothing to improve his mood.

The Glee Club Presidential Election of 2011 was definitely a-go as Rachel campaigned for the top spot and the rest of the glee clubbers discussed what it would be like if they ruled the roost. Kurt was mostly concerned that Rachel would win, but he also fretted about Brittany, who had the potential to win through sheer default if everyone else remained so split.

Kurt ground his teeth slightly while Brittany traced a messy unicorn on her binder.

"Did you know they have a mango flavored slushie now? It's actually pretty good, but I don't have taste buds on my eyes."

"You don't?" Brittany asked, surprised, as Blaine tromped into the glee club room, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Morning."

"Oh no, not again," Kurt groaned, getting up and walking over to him. "What happened?"

"Azimio wanted to extend a personal welcome to the 'newest member of the fairyclub.'" Blaine wrinkled his nose as he held out his arms in an invisible banner, making the peach-colored ice slid a little down his cheek. "I think he called me Tink, too, but I got a mouthful of slushie before I could confirm it."

"He calls me 'Barbie,'" Brittany chimed in happily. "Does that mean we can hang out now?"

"Um, sure," Blaine said, "but I thought we already did."

"No, I mean, hang out, hang out."

"Oh. Um, no, sorry, Britt, I'm taken," Blaine added quickly as Kurt ushered him forcefully out of the room. "Hey, slow down, what's wrong?"

"What, you like being covered in mango slushie?"

"No, but you look really upset and I want to know why."

"I'm not upset." Blaine lifted a light-orange eyebrow. "I'm angry. You would think they would stop slushying people--"

A hulking figure stepped into view, grinning widely. "Oh, looks like Tink brought along his other fairy."

Kurt inwardly winced, not letting it show as he scowled. Blaine, however, didn't seem worried. "Hi, Azimio," he said, brushing a stray piece of mango ice off his eyes. "What can we do for you?"

"How about you stop trying to make our football players even more gay?"

Blaine looked puzzled, even though he still had orange-tinted ice splashed over his face. "They're not gay."

"And I'm not black." Azimio grinned as he held up a large slushy. "Now, I've only got one of these and I'm feeling pretty generous, so which one of you wants it? Double serving or matching pair?"

Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but Azimio had already obliged Blaine's exasperated order of 'Double serving' and dumped the slushy over his head.

"You two have a nice day," he added, laughing as he walked off.

"Hmm. I think that one was actually peach," Blaine said, eyes squinted shut, completely unalarmed by the fact that he had just been slushied again. "Would you mind escorting me to the restroom? I have peach slushy in my eye."

Kurt sighed and grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the men's room and locking the door behind them. He didn't want anyone coming in, whether it was Finn or Puck or someone he'd never paid attention to at all before. Blaine stumbled blindly towards a sink and turned on the faucet, dragging most of the slushy off his hair.

"Here, let me," Kurt said, stepping forward and threading the pieces of ice out of his hair. "I can't believe they keep doing this. It's so . . . childish."

"It's just a prejudice," Blaine said, working on rubbing corn syrup out of his eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"I didn't want you to come to McKinley to get slushied all the time." Kurt scowled at nothing in particular, vexed and irritated.

"I'm not being slushied all the time," Blaine reminded.

"You've been slushied three times in six days."

"Which still isn't all the time," Blaine pointed out.

"Will you stop being so optimistic?" Kurt grumbled, backing away so that Blaine could wash the slushie out of his eyes better.

Blaine finished brushing corn syrup off, turning off the water and reaching over for a handful of paper towels. "Would you prefer it if I was upset about this?" Blaine asked, dabbing at his face. "You want me to be angry?"

"Yes, maybe," Kurt put in sarcastically. "We deserve to be angry. This shouldn't be happening."

Blaine tossed the paper towels into the trash bin, looking at Kurt with slushy-reddened eyes. "People are going to be prejudiced. I'm just choosing not to waste my energy being angry with it."

Kurt shook his head at him, disbelieving that Blaine could be so calm about this. Blaine gestured towards the door, waiting to see Kurt's reaction. Instead of opening it, Kurt walked over until he was standing less than a foot away from Blaine, saying seriously, "We're going to change this."

"Kurt--"

"We're going to change this," Kurt said firmly, putting a finger on his lips before Blaine could protest. He actually broke into a smile as he considered it, saying, "I think I just found my class presidential platform."

"What?" Blaine asked warily.

Kurt almost laughed at the worried, Do you know what you're doing? look Blaine cast him then.

Of course I do. "PFLAG."

* * *

"You want to start a what?"

"PFLAG," Kurt said cheerfully. "Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays."

Finn ran his hand down his face slowly. "Kurt, do you even know how much we're being insulted just because Blaine joined the glee club? Do you want to paint an even bigger target on us? We're finally on the way towards winning nationals, and you want to start a revolution."

Kurt's lips quirked in a slight smile without his permission, even though the topic was serious. I'm a regular revolutionary. "Yes," he said firmly. "This school needs to see that whether you're a football player or a chess champion, it doesn't make you gay or straight."

"Kurt, couldn't we just . . . postpone this until after nationals?"

Leveling a flat look at him, Kurt moved so that he was sitting on the chair across from Finn. "Nationals is practically at the end of the school year."

"Exactly. People won't be as interested, they'll be--"

"The problem is now," Kurt interrupted, "and people like you aren't exactly helping the matter."

Finn's brow furrowed in confusion as he leaned back in his chair. "What do you mean?"

"Finn, I'm not blind. I see the way you guys treat Blaine, and put politely, it pisses me off that you're so worried about your own reputations that you won't even look at him. If you're going to do it, at least treat me the same way."

Finn looked frustrated, groping with one hand for words. "Kurt, it has nothing to do with his sexuality. . . ."

"Really?" Kurt asked, in a tone of mock-lightness. "So when Sam joined, you gave him the silent treatment? Or Lauren? Did you ignore either of them because Sam had a big mouth or Lauren was heavy? Did you?"

Finn shifted a little, looking both uncomfortable and agitated. "Dude, you don't understand. Maybe if Blaine hadn't been so flamboyant during his audition--"

"Finn, he sang a song. Do you even remember our 'Push It' performance? And I might be recalling incorrectly, but I slapped your ass during that and nothing changed. It didn't get better or worse."

"Blaine's performance set a freakin' piano on fire. I think that warrants a little more attention," Finn interjected, looking like he was trying very hard not to remember either 'Push It' or the time when Kurt was still crushing on him.

"The Cheerios set a piano on fire using Blaine's performance as a distraction."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the rest of the school. When some guy in tight red pants and a bow tie gets up and starts singing and dancing, they think we're all like that. The piano-fire just made it that more memorable, and everyone blames Blaine for it anyway."

"And you're not doing anything to stop it," Kurt said flatly.

Finn shrugged. "I'm one guy, Kurt. I can't change the way other people think. I mean, yeah, people do it in the real world and everything, but--"

"High school isn't the real world for you, Finn. But it is for me. People are always going to be prejudiced against Blaine and I for who we are. The least you could do would be to respect that maybe it would be nice if someone who supposedly is fine with it would actually support us once in a while."

Kurt shoved back his chair. "I'm going through with this. And whether you support it or not, I'm not backing down. I thought you were different than them, Finn, and once upon a time I was naïve enough to believe that the you that called me a fag wasn't really who you were." He shook his head bitterly. "Stop the preferential treatment. If you're against Blaine, you're against me."

"Kurt--"

Kurt didn't listen. He just gave him one last dry-eyed glare and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him as he pulled out his phone.

I'm coming over, he texted Blaine.

A pause, then: See you soon.

* * *

"Where's Kurt?"

Finn shrugged, toggling his controller. "Blaine's."

Burt frowned. "He say when he was coming back?" It was already eleven o'clock: after curfew for Kurt.

Finn shrugged again, drowning himself out in the unreality of the game. "No."

"It's a school night," Burt said, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. "How come I didn't here he was driving out to Westerville?"

Finn stared stoically at the screen. "I don't know. I thought he told you," he lied.

He knew that Kurt wouldn't have called his dad and said that he was driving out to Westerville, because his dad would have wanted to know why (Blaine always drove to Lima, not the other way around), and then Kurt would have had to tell the truth or lie. There was no way Kurt would tell the truth -- or at least, he hadn't, which was something that Finn found himself eerily grateful for -- but he couldn't lie well, either. Silence was the easiest route.

"Why's my kid in Westerville?" Burt demanded while Finn continued to play the game mindlessly. "Finn?"

"You know, I'm your kid, too," he pointed out sharply, dropping the controller on the couch and focusing his gaze on Burt.

Burt's eyes narrowed. "You two fought." There was no doubt in his voice.

Finn inclined his head. "Yes."

Burt visibly bit down on a curse and shook his head. "If he's not at Blaine's, you are in a hell of a lot of trouble, kid."

He picked up the phone.

Finn pressed his fists against his forehead in frustration. What did he have to do for everyone to understand that after two years of being teased for something he didn't even do, he just wanted a break? That this was the easiest way to handle things? Yes, Kurt was like a brother to him. Yes, he was happy he had someone to be with. No, he didn't want Kurt to be bullied.

But Blaine? Blaine was supposed to be able to stand up for himself. Blaine was supposed to be able to handle his own problems. And Blaine had said nothing about his stay at McKinley that wasn't positive. He hadn't even been slushied, as far as Finn knew.

Well. Except for that first time, and everyone had to be slushied once. It was a tradition. How was Finn responsible for protecting both of them from the rest of the world? It was one slushy. It didn't matter. He'd gotten the 'rainbow' treatment on his second day back, and that was before Blaine joined. Now that Blaine was around, the slurs had escalated until he was regularly snapping at people he usually ignored.

This is insane, he thought, listening to Burt on the phone.

The good news: it definitely sounded like Kurt was at Blaine's, which meant that at least Finn wasn't in a 'hell of a lot of trouble.' Well. He probably still was, if Kurt was saying half the stuff he suspected he would be. At last, Burt hung up, turning to face Finn with a serious expression on his face.

To his surprise, Burt didn't start yelling at him. Burt simply walked over to the table and sat. Finn wordlessly stood and joined him, eerily reminded of how Kurt and he had been sitting earlier.

"What's your take on this?" Burt asked suddenly.

Finn blinked. He actually wants my opinion? Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. This could just be an opportunity for Burt to gather evidence against him.

Still, Finn was tired of keeping quiet. He was tired of feeling like the bad guy.

So he spoke.

And Burt actually listened.

Not without some judgment, of course. That was unavoidable. There were moments when Burt frowned slightly or seemed on the verge of interrupting with something angry before restraining himself. In the end, however, he let Finn talk, let him vent, until at last the silence solidified between them. Finn waited, out of words, out of arguments, out of feelings to exhaust. Everything seemed to have been drained from him: all the reasons, all the excuses, all the truths.

"Well," Burt said gruffly, breaking the overwhelming silence. "I can't say that I know exactly where you're coming from, because I don't. I never had a gay friend in high school, let alone a gay stepbrother." He shrugged, momentarily closed off from speculation. "But I will say this: you're both right."

Finn's eyes narrowed skeptically. "So what's your grand solution?"

He winced slightly, half-expecting a rebuke, but Burt just shook his head. "I don't have one," he admitted bluntly. "But you three need each other more than you seem to realize. Kurt knows it, but I don't think he sees that this is an issue of reciprocation as much as it is of getting support." Finn's brow furrowed. Reciprocation? Burt continued before he could ask. "You need someone to support you as much as they need someone to support them," Burt amended. "At the very least, you guys need to watch each other's backs."

"How can they support me? They're the reason I'm getting taunted in the first place."

"No, you're getting taunted because you're in glee club."

"Which they're also in," Finn pointed out.

"You can still support each other through this. If you start isolating yourself now, your club's going to fall apart, because from what I hear, you three are pretty important."

Finn shook his head slightly. "I don't see how that'll make anything better."

"It might not seem to at first," Burt said simply, "but you'll feel a lot better if you don't feel like you're fighting this alone."

"I know you're under a lot of pressure," Burt went on, when Finn sat in silence. "I know it's hard being a guy sometimes. But it's hard for them, too, and they need your support, even if it does make things a little harder for you. Because if you support them, I know they'll support you in return. You glee kids deal with a lot of crap because of other people not understanding what a great thing it is, but you make it through because you support each other. Don't lose sight of that because someone else calls you something you're not."

Scuffing his fingertips slightly against the table for something to do while he thought, Finn sighed at last and lifted his gaze. "I'll try," was all he said.

Burt inclined his head. "Good. And remember, Finn: actions speak a lot louder than words. If you want to make this better, I'd start there."

Finn paused, thinking, then nodded. "You're going to let him stay there tonight, aren't you?"

Burt nodded once.

"Then I'll make this right tomorrow," Finn said, getting up from his seat.

"See you, kid."

"Night, Burt."


	7. Chapter 7

"Hey, mom, Kurt's coming over pretty soon, is that okay?"

"Is Kurt the one from school?" Emily asked, looking up briefly from her laptop. She had a light, borderline southern accent, descended from a mostly Georgian family. When she moved to Ohio, it was for her marriage: Brian Anderson worked with a good firm situated in Ohio, a respected lawyer if not the most personable of people.

"Uh huh. Brown hair, blue eyes, about an inch taller than me?" Blaine gestured with a hand roughly Kurt's height. Emily's eyes lit up in recognition.

"Ah! That one. Yes, darling, that's fine." She looked back at her laptop and refocused on the screen, instantly distracted from the conversation.

Blaine waited a moment before nodding and retreating to his own room to tidy up before Kurt came over. Some days, he just texted Blaine and asked if he could come over, and Blaine accepted, no questions asked. They would hang out and Kurt would vent however he needed to, whether it was ranting aloud or silently fuming, until at last he had put off enough steam to feel fine again.

Humming slightly to himself, he tugged his satchel out of the way of the door and threw open the window. It was a warm enough day with a sun slightly occluded by wispy clouds, and the temperature was mild enough that Blaine preferred open windows to air conditioning. His mother usually left the air conditioning off, anyway, so he had adjusted his habits accordingly.

Blaine's room was nothing special: there was a chest with a maelstrom of supplies around it and a dresser in one corner and a closet on the opposite side. The color scheme was mostly in greens, with a dark green wall and a woodsy-brown carpet to accompany it. His stuff, strewn in various places around the room, was mostly music related, although a few memorabilia from good times with friends also edged in. Flopping down on his bed and pulling out his phone to see if he had missed the vibration if Kurt texted again (he hadn't), he tossed it towards the other side and basked in the simplicity of not having corn syrup in his hair and not having to worry about a mountain load of homework.

Soon enough, however, boredom sank in and he tugged his own laptop out (his mom had finally gotten him one when he started attending Dalton), setting up a Pandora account and perusing Facebook absentmindedly.

Before he had finished scrolling through all of the minute-by-minute account of Wes's UVA career, a buzz came from his phone. He quickly put the laptop on hibernate mode and set it down, unsurprised to see the 'From Kurt' message on the phone.

Here, was all it said.

Blaine trotted downstairs, pocketing his phone as his mom looked up and called, "That him?"

"Yeah," Blaine called back, pulling open the door. "Hi -- umph."

The latter was mostly an involuntary grunt as Kurt yanked him outside and hugged him hard enough Blaine could hear bones creaking. He didn't tell him to loosen up, though, just hugged him back and waited for the hold to relax.

Slowly, fingers flexing slightly as he did so, Kurt stopped half-crushing him and let his head rest on Blaine's shoulder. He breathed in slowly and deeply, and Blaine waited for the inevitable.

At last: "Can we just take a walk?"

Blaine nodded, backing away from him as Kurt did the same. He gestured towards the sidewalk, Kurt mindlessly walking ahead of him. Blaine followed, shutting the door behind him.

He lived in a fairly remote area of Westerville: the general sprawl of houses here was slightly more widespread than in Lima. Considering most of the families here had someone at Dalton, it was a good community. Blaine didn't worry about walking alone here, unlike back at Hawthorne, where even a short walk could be disastrous. Here, he trusted everyone to mind their own business: if he wanted to walk with his boyfriend, then he was going to.

Kurt took a slightly more reserved stance, which was ironic, since he usually loved showing off who he was. He waited until they'd been walking for a time before he would take Blaine's hand, for example, even though Blaine didn't think he had any reason to fear.

Less than three minutes into that walk, Kurt reached out, and Blaine wordlessly stepped forward and interlaced their hands. "What happened?" he asked gently. It helped alleviate some of the tension Kurt seemed to have whenever they held hands in public; Blaine could see his shoulders visibly relax a little as they kept walking.

Kurt shook his head slightly as he answered. "I just . . . I can't believe how stupid some people can be."

"Any people in particular?" Blaine asked lightly.

"Finn," Kurt bit out. "He's so worried about being the precious quarterback that he doesn't see anything but himself. And Rachel." Kurt scowled at the sky and shook his head again. "He doesn't understand anything at all. He just wants to get through this year and pretend he has nothing to do with us so that he can go off and live his resoundingly straight life as a normal person without any worries regarding us."

"Mmm," Blaine hummed. "Straight-gay issue?"

"Yes. Blaine, he acts like if he stands near a gay person too long it'll damn his social status for life. If I wasn't his stepbrother, he probably would do his best to avoid speaking with me, too, but--"

"So this is about me," Blaine deduced mildly.

"No. This is about us." When Blaine looked over at him quizzically, Kurt answered seriously, "I refuse to let him blame this entirely on you. If he's against one of us, then he's against both of us."

"Mmm," Blaine said again. "Have you . . . considered that maybe he's just venting?" Blaine prompted, lacing his voice with a delicacy so as not to offend Kurt when he was in such an unobliging mood.

Almost on cue, Kurt's brow furrowed and he scowled. "He has no right to blame this on us," he said heatedly. "It's not like--"

"Sometimes people act irrational when they're frustrated," Blaine put in.

Kurt's fingers tightened around his involuntarily in frustration; Blaine lightly ran his thumb over Kurt's knuckles. "Finn seems like a good guy overall," he said.

Kurt barked a laugh. "He hasn't said five words to you since you transferred," he pointed out bitterly.

"No, but over the summer he seemed pretty okay. What I'm trying to say is that . . . maybe he's just venting his frustration onto us because we're the only people he can tangibly blame."

"So just the entire gay community," Kurt spat.

The implication of Kurt's words seemed to have startled both of them, Kurt's fingers chill and loose in Blaine's own. At last, Kurt asked quietly, "Why couldn't it have just ended with Karofsky? Wasn't that supposed to be it? Convert the head bully, the rest will follow?" He drew in a shuddering breath, shaking his head. "I wanted this year to be magic. Now I'd settle for normal. Rachel's gone insane, Finn -- I don't even have a word for him, and everyone else just doesn't care."

"They care," Blaine said softly. "Look at Tina, and Brittany, and Mercedes. They all really care about you, Kurt, and they're not afraid to show it." Kurt was already drawing in a breath to protest when Blaine went on, undeterred. "Artie cares. He stood up for you when you needed the support, and so did Puck, and Mike . . . and I'm sure that Finn would have been there if he'd had himself sorted out better at the time."

"But he didn't," Kurt broke in sharply. "When I needed him, he -- he just stood by. No one had to stand up for me, but they did anyway, because that's what friends do for each other. When I actually wanted someone to be there, Finn didn't do anything."

"I'm not excusing him," Blaine said, squeezing Kurt's hand once reassuringly. "I just want you to know that there's two sides to this."

"And which one are you on?" Kurt asked, with a look of such genuine suspicion that Blaine knew he would be seriously offended if he answered wrong.

"I'm on yours, Kurt. But--"

"I don't want to talk about Finn anymore," Kurt said firmly, ending the conversation.

* * *

A couple hours later, feeling somewhat more subdued, Kurt was lying across Blaine's bed and reveling in the general quiet around him. Although he usually didn't come over to Blaine's place (mostly because Blaine didn't like to have him around at the same time that his dad was there; apparently things were still sore between them), he was definitely glad he had then. The lack of violent video games and football games below was soothing on his frayed nerves. Blaine had given him free reign over his laptop while he showered, so Kurt was alternately listening to different songs on Blaine's playlist and listening to the beautiful lack of chaos around him.

His phone buzzed suddenly, startling him, and he nearly dropped Blaine's laptop off the bed as he reached over to answer it. Unlocking it as he realized it was a call from his dad, he asked, "Hello?" at the same moment that he rescued the laptop from falling off the couch.

"Kurt? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Kurt said reflexively, shutting off the tabs on the laptop as Blaine reappeared in the room, dressed in gray sweats and a white t-shirt. He looked at Kurt, raised his eyebrows, and Kurt mouthed, "Dad," at him. Blaine nodded once in return, accepting the laptop when Kurt handed it to him.

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"I just came to visit Blaine," Kurt lied. Well, half-lied, since it was partially the truth.

"Does it have something to do with Finn?"

Kurt winced a little and shrugged, scooting over obligingly while Blaine sat beside him, legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

"Yes," he hedged. "Somewhat."

"Did he hurt you?" his dad demanded, instantly going into 'protective papa bear' mode. Kurt couldn't help rolling his eyes a little -- of course he hurt me, do you really think I would just drive out here on a school night for fun? -- before answering.

"We just . . . we got in an argument."

"About what?"

"About . . . glee club."

A pause. Then: "He said something about you being gay, didn't he?"

Kurt paused, honestly considering denying it. He didn't know why -- he wasn't interested in sparing Finn's feelings at all -- but in the end he couldn't help himself. "Yes," he whispered.

Another pause, longer this time. "I'm guessing you don't want to come home tonight?"

Kurt shook his head. "No."

"All right. I'll make an exception for now as long as Blaine's parents are okay."

"It's just his mom here, and she's fine with it," Kurt assured.

Blaine tilted his head inquiringly; Kurt shook his head. Later.

"Okay then. You sure you're okay?"

Kurt sighed a little. No. "Yes, Dad. I'm sure. Thanks for calling. Love you, too. Bye."

"And the verdict is . . . ?"

"He said I can stay the night."

Blaine grinned, then grimaced a little. "What?" Kurt asked, frowning. Blaine had been the one to make the offer, if he was backing out now--

"It's just . . . a pretty good drive from here to McKinley. I hope you don't mind waking up early."

Kurt rolled his eyes and nudged his shoulder, inwardly relieved that it was nothing he couldn't handle. "More horrifying is the prospect of going an entire night without my moisturizers."

Blaine blinked, evidently stunned. "I forgot about those. Wow. You're willing to sacrifice them?"

Kurt shoved his shoulder again. "Don't remind me of it."

Blaine grinned a little, then raised his eyebrows as he pulled up a tab Kurt had forgotten to close. "Browsing my playlist?" he asked with a slight smile.

With a scowl, Kurt tugged the laptop out of his hands. "Spying on me spying on you?"

"I think it's justified," Blaine said lightly. "Ooh, you spotted the thirties track."

"'Thirties track'?" Kurt scrolled through the list, shaking his head. "Blaine, your tastes never cease to amaze me. Hmm . . . what's this?"

"Really? You don't know Ella Fitzgerald?"

"I don't know this song," Kurt corrected.

"Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen? You know . . . 'Bei mir bist du schoen, please let me explain, bei mir bist du schoen, means that you're grand.'"

Kurt lifted his eyebrows and pressed play.

Three minutes later he was lying partially on a pillow on top of the back of Blaine's head trying to drown out his boyfriend's voice as he laughingly belted out the chorus.

"Get what it means yet?" Blaine asked, grinning as he tilted his head to look at him, arms crossed and a lazy expression on his face.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Shush."

* * *

Kurt's levity was gone by the next morning.

Blaine had insisted on driving, noting the pale-faced way Kurt went through morning rituals of getting up, getting dressed (he casually pieced together an outfit using some of Blaine's clothes), getting breakfast, and getting out the door. There was a definite tension around his jaw as he stared blankly out the window, unspeaking. The only thing he had said all morning was a stiff, "Good morning, Mrs. Anderson," when they saw Blaine's mom downstairs.

Since then, silence.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked, once fifteen minutes had passed and Kurt hadn't said anything.

Kurt shrugged. "Not really," he admitted. He picked at the strap of his satchel uneasily, thinking. "I don't know what to do about all this."

"For now, you don't have to do anything. The ball's in Finn's court, not yours. He has to make the next move."

"And if he just ignores us?" Kurt asked bitterly.

Blaine shrugged a little. "Then we'll just have to act accordingly."

Another pause. "How are we supposed to have a glee club like this?" he whispered, voice half-desperate for an answer. "With Rachel running for president, and Finn and the guys all being--"

"It'll work out," Blaine said with conviction. "Somehow, it'll work out."

"I just wish I had your certainty," Kurt muttered.

Blaine remained silent, letting him mull over that.

Truth be told, he wished he was as convinced that it would work out as he said, because if it didn't, he honestly had no idea how they were supposed to make it survive glee club, let alone make it to competitions.

It'll be okay, he told himself firmly. It has to be.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Mr. Hudson?"

Finn nodded, rubbing the back of his neck slightly. He had spent the entire night holed up in his room brainstorming how to make it up to Kurt and Blaine somehow, including a three a.m. texting session with Rachel. Burt hadn't yelled at him when he saw the light was still on under the doorway, and even though Finn suspected that his mom was surprised, she didn't mention anything, either. The hours had passed as Finn mulled over and discarded ideas, tossing a football absentmindedly in the air to distract himself.

His first instinct had been to just call Kurt and apologize to him, because that seemed like both the easiest and most straightforward way of saying that he didn't mean to make Kurt feel as badly about it. Unfortunately, by the time he'd come up with that, it was already after midnight, and he knew that Kurt wouldn't appreciate a late call interrupting his 'beauty sleep' from the one person he probably really wouldn't want to talk to. Texting was also out: it wouldn't be sincere enough to make up for anything, and Finn knew that Kurt could just delete it without even reading it once he saw the caller ID.

Puzzling over various ideas, he returned continuously to thoughts of how utterly unfair this situation was for all of them. Kurt wanted to be happy and able to express himself without prejudices; Finn wanted to be himself without being called gay on a regular basis; and everyone else in glee club just wanted some positive recognition that didn't stem directly from a trophy. It didn't matter if the football team won or lost its game: for the most part, football players were still considered the coolest guys around (exempting those involved in glee club, of course).

Their numbers were so diminished that Finn knew it was vital to keep things together: Kurt wouldn't quit glee club, and he doubted Blaine would, either, but not quitting and actually enjoying being there were two very different things.

So, after many hours of fruitless contemplation and the lengthy texting session with Rachel, Finn had his plan of action ready. If Kurt wanted a PFLAG, then, well, Finn would just have to get him a PFLAG.

Actions did speak louder than words, after all.

It was a huge risk, one which Finn knew he wouldn't have taken a year ago for fear of utterly ruining his reputation. At least his status usually went up after a football win; now, he knew, even if they won the championship again he would be unlikely to be seen as anything more than another 'gay glee clubber.'

But he owed this to Kurt, and Blaine, and himself, really. He had said that he would protect Kurt, and that he didn't care if Kurt was gay or straight, and now he was making that statement to everyone else, too.

Starting a club at McKinley only required a proposal and a couple signatures. Now that Figgins had given it his approval, he was all set.

Well. Somewhat. There was still the matter of approaching Kurt about the whole thing, something that Finn was definitely not looking forward to.

Accepting the paper back from Figgins, he stood up, hovering awkwardly for a moment before slipping the paper inside of his binder. He would tell Kurt about it later, when he had something better to say. Maybe he could ask Rachel for some advice on that, too, now that he'd taken the first step.

The minute he stepped outside of the office, however, Finn decided that maybe it was time for a slightly more timely intervention.

* * *

"Okay, Hudson, what did you do to my boy Kurt?"

Mercedes Jones was a rather intimidating person on any day when she was angry. With her giant-of-a-boyfriend Marcus standing behind her, however, she quickly surpassed 'intimidating' to 'terrifying.'

"Can we talk about this not in the middle of the halls?" he muttered.

"No," Mercedes said, fearlessly advancing until she was less than two feet away from him. "You have five seconds to explain, or I will cut you."

Marcus gave an approving 'mmhmm' that sounded more like a muted roar. Finn resisted the urge to shake his head and hissed, "I got in an argument with Kurt."

"About what?" Mercedes said, ignoring his efforts to quiet the conversation. None of the passing students seemed very interested, but a few were sparing nervous looks at Marcus before quickening their pace. Finn couldn't honestly blame them; at the moment, he rather felt like doing the same.

"We . . . it was stupid."

"If you thought something he said was stupid and that's why he's so upset, so help me, Finn--"

"No!" Finn dropped his voice, speaking urgently. "This isn't something I want everyone to know."

"Know what?" Mercedes said, unperturbed.

"Mercedes, leave him alone," a different voice interrupted quietly.

Finn whirled around, opening his mouth to speak, but Kurt was staring pointedly at Mercedes and Marcus, a mixture of sadness and gratitude in his face. Finn felt guilty just looking at him.

"This doesn't . . . we don't need to make this into some big drama," he said in a deadened voice, completely unlike the cheerful optimism he'd displayed when he first talked to Finn about the whole PFLAG idea. Finn's guilt racketed up another notch.

"Yes, we do," Mercedes said firmly. "If he's upset you this much, Kurt, then something's seriously wrong."

Kurt's eyes were vacant as he shrugged. "Something is wrong," he agreed, "but nothing I can fix." He spared a withering glare for Finn then and turned on his heel.

"Kurt, wait--"

"You better have a very good explanation for this, Hudson," Mercedes warned, as Marcus grabbed Finn's shoulder before he could move. "Because I do not like it when anyone makes my boy feel like that."

Finn grimaced, and silently hoped that his plan would work. If it didn't, he knew, he might lose more than just a stepbrother: he might also lose glee club.

He would make things right. He would.

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Schue? Can I say something?"

Mr. Schue looked at Finn and paused mid-lecture about how for invitationals this year they had to submit their names a week earlier than usual. He looked briefly at Kurt, an accidental gesture, and Kurt stared stoically back, unspeaking.

"Sure thing, Finn," Mr. Schue allowed, standing aside as Finn stepped forward.

Almost reflexively, it seemed, he tucked his hands in his pocket. "Hi," he said stupidly.

Kurt wasn't feeling very charitable this afternoon, particularly after someone -- probably a hockey player -- had gotten Blaine with a cherry slushy just twenty minutes before glee club started. ("Well, at this rate, I'll figure out which flavor I like best.") The only benefit to Blaine being slushied was that he had to borrow one of Kurt's shirts for the rest of the day, which usually resulted in 'accidentally' forgetting to ask for said-shirts back. Ironically, it also meant that their outfits usually matched, something that Kurt had been saying they should do since spring.

Got my wish, he thought sourly, Blaine looking altogether too open-minded for his comfort. Finn doesn't deserve another chance, Blaine. Stop being so generous.

But then, mutinously: Karoksky didn't deserve another chance. You shouldn't have come back.

Shaking that thought off, Kurt listened as Finn finally opened his mouth again and spoke.

"I'm . . . I want to apologize," he said. Mr. Schue raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. "These past few days I haven't exactly been . . . supportive about our new member." He looked straight at Blaine, even though the rest of the glee club had to know who he was talking about, and said simply, "I'm really sorry, dude. I didn't act the way I should have, and . . . that was wrong."

Blaine inclined his head; Kurt looked on, flat, unimpressed.

"And I owe you one, Kurt," Finn said, correctly realizing that he needed to apologize to Kurt as well. "I promised that I was going to be a real brother to you and . . . I haven't done that at all. So I'm sorry."

The desperate sincerity made Kurt sigh slightly, even if he hadn't fully forgiven him, or even truly begun. We'll talk, he mouthed.

Finn seemed to recognize that it wouldn't be a very pleasant talk but wisely refrained from making a comment.

"Is that all?" Puck drawled, unreserved about his opinion on Blaine. Kurt shot him a look that he didn't see; Finn, however, could clearly see it.

"No," Finn said with a sudden nervous energy that reminded Kurt vaguely of the time when he had told him that he had accidentally spilled white out all over one of Kurt's favorite pairs of jeans. "There's something else. This isn't just about me. This is about all the guys. And girls," he added absentmindedly. Rachel seemed to beam a little from her seat, sitting up straighter. Kurt didn't bother hide it as he lifted his gaze skyward in supplication. Not every reference to people Finn makes is about her.

"I've, uh, talked with Figgins," and here Finn shuffled back to his seat, nervously pulling out a binder that resembled a simplified and more masculine version of Rachel's college planner, "and organized a new club."

He didn't, Kurt thought, closing his eyes. Finn Hudson, you did not--

"PFLAG," Finn said.

Silence.

* * *

"Well, I applaud him for taking the initiative," Blaine said loftily, chewing on a granola bar.

"Don't," Kurt warned. "And initiative? Finn has no idea what he's doing. I barely had any idea what I was doing when I suggested it, and I thought of it!"

"Kurt, I think you're taking this a little more seriously than need be. Finn organizing the club doesn't mean that you can't have a part in its management. In fact," he took another bite of the granola bar and swallowed before adding, "I think he intends for you to be the leader still."

"He could have consulted me for it," Kurt raged, waving his fork imperiously. "It doesn't help that he just . . . went off and made one!"

Blaine reached over and gently pried the fork out of Kurt's fingers before he could accidentally stab one of the passerby's. Or intentionally, depending on how angry he truly was.

"The fact that Finn started it will blow over," he assured. "Most people won't think of him as the leader once you've gotten it organized."

"This was supposed to be my idea," Kurt huffed. "My campaign for class president, remember?"

"This still supports it, Kurt."

Kurt still looked doubtful, casting a longing look at the fork Blaine had confiscated from him. With a sigh, he turned over his hand and squeezed Blaine's fingers instead. "I'm definitely going to have to have a word with Finn after this," he warned seriously.

Blaine nodded in acceptance. "Fair enough. Just . . . be open-minded?"

Kurt scowled. "You haven't known Finn Hudson as long as I have. But I'll . . . try. Maybe."

"Good."

At least you don't have to talk to him, Kurt thought darkly.

Yes, he would definitely have a word with Finn Hudson tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

"So."

"So . . . ?"

"You started a PFLAG."

Finn scuffed his fingertips together anxiously. "Yes."

"Without consulting me first," Kurt pointed out.

Finn nodded slightly, biting at the tip of his fingernail.

Kurt closed his eyes as though pained. "Please don't do that."

"Sorry." Finn dropped his hand back to the table, clasping them together so he wouldn't feel tempted to do it again. He was doing his best to win over Kurt at this point, not aggravate him further. And if normally he would have just rolled his eyes and said that him biting his nails didn't have any direct effect on Kurt, then this wasn't a normal occasion. He had bandaged the problem; he hadn't addressed the real issues. He hadn't been comfortable telling the rest of the glee club that he had been homophobic, in his own way. By deliberately avoiding someone who was gay and doing nothing to stop the slushying Blaine had already received, he had discriminated against him.

Truthfully, that made him feel a little sick to his stomach. If he could revert so easily to old ways where he didn't like to even meet Kurt's gaze because he was worried of finding an infatuated smile in return, he didn't want to know what his future looked like. Was it always like this? Would it always be hard to be around Kurt and Blaine in public because of the slurs, the taunts, the looks?

And I'm not even gay, Finn thought bitterly. Great.

"Why did you do it?" Kurt asked quietly, his voice neither accepting nor outright denying anything. Finn felt some of the buried tension in his spine diminish. He had half-expected this to be a shouting conversation where Kurt insisted that Finn hadn't done anything to correct the problem and Finn yelled back that of course he had, he had just given up every shred of his reputation by signing his name on that document. As soon as it became widespread, Finn was socially dead: he would be on the same level as everyone else in glee.

No more shields, he mused. No more football victories to cure everything. He would have to fight for his reputation now, and fight hard if he wanted to maintain it.

No wonder Kurt's so different. He wouldn't be noticed at all if he wasn't.

It was a mixed bargain: by being noticed, Kurt opened himself up for even more degradation and targeting than if he laid low. On the other hand, Kurt was bound to be taunted for being gay, whether he stayed above or below the radar.

"I did it because . . . I'm tired of screwing things up with us. I didn't protect you when Karofsky started harassing you." He noticed the way that Kurt paled a little as he said the name, though his mouth firmed stubbornly. "I didn't stand up for you when the other guys were bullying you before him, throwing you in dumpsters and stuff. And I haven't stood beside you and Blaine with the whole transfer thing, either."

"No, you haven't," Kurt said. His eyes were more gray than blue, Finn noted absently. More cold than forgiving.

"Look, I know I mess up a lot. I know I'm not good at these things. But I just . . . I feel like I really messed up this time."

"You did," Kurt interjected bluntly.

Finn suppressed a wince. "I want to make things better. Not just for you, but everyone. And this doesn't just benefit you and Blaine." Kurt's eyebrows arched dramatically, waiting. "It benefits all of us. Unity. Remember that? Schuester talking all about how we needed to be unified this year. Well, I think . . . I think a PFLAG could really unite us."

Kurt leveled a speculative look at him, fingers steepled. Finn waited until at last Kurt shook his head a tiny bit and leaned back in his chair. "You're serious," he murmured, sounding surprised.

"Of course I am," Finn said. "Didn't I make that clear already?"

"This isn't some sort of game, Finn. You don't just pull out the 'PFLAG card' to get back on my good side. You're committing to this. I want you to understand that if you break this, we're done. I'm not going to live with someone who can't even accept that not everyone's the same and we can't help it that we're different." The last words he practically spit out, biting his lower lip when he was done.

"I know, dude. Kurt. And I'm . . . I don't know, I guess I'm happy for you and Blaine and everything, and that's part of why I feel bad." Kurt's eyes were shadowed again, hard to read. "I don't want it to seem like I'm against who you are. I'm not. I accept that you're gay."

"Do you?" Kurt prompted, almost lightly. His gaze was so dark that Finn couldn't tell if his eyes were blue or gray or purple.

"I do," Finn said firmly. "Despite how I've acted, I do."

There was a pause, then a soft, chilling laugh. "It's how you act that decides who you are, Finn. And if you act like a homophobe, that makes you a homophobe, regardless of what you say."

"I'm not a homophobe," Finn said, barely stopping himself from snapping it. He couldn't get angry with Kurt right now. Frankly, he couldn't let Kurt get angry with him, either, but he really couldn't get angry at Kurt, or he would lose it and they would be right back to square one. Worse, since he wasn't even sure they had any connection to each other any more.

Kurt merely folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side. "Really?" he said, his voice thin. "So the fact that you were perfectly fine ostracizing Blaine because he might ruin your reputation as a straight guy wasn't homophobia?"

"Look," Finn said. Kurt's eyebrows lifted another notch. "Can we please not get hung up over one thing? I'm sorry, okay. I get that it was wrong that I made Blaine feel unwelcome or something, but . . . can I be honest?" Kurt inclined his head a tiny bit, though his expression was wary. "Nothing much has happened now, either. Yeah, Blaine's been ignored. We've all experienced moments when we feel left out. Yeah, Blaine was slushied. We've all been slushied. I might not have been acting right, but it doesn't make me some sort of homophobe."

"Do you even know how many times he was slushied?" Kurt demanded softly.

Finn's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Kurt shook his head, lips pursed. "Guess."

With a wince, knowing that there was no way to win in this situation, Finn shrugged and hedged, "Twice?"

"Four times."

"Dude, what the hell? When did that happen?"

"Oh, just when you and Puck were talking about how the prep boy had set a piano on fire in the courtyard," Kurt said in a light voice. "Or maybe when you were discussing how much you wished you didn't need a prep boy ruining your pretty reputation. It's hard eating your own words, isn't it?" he asked in a mock sympathetic tone.

Finn couldn't help it; he covered his forehead with a hand, feeling like someone had slammed a sledgehammer against it. Yes, he'd said those things but . . . but nothing.

His excuses dried up. He had said those to preserve his reputation, to show that he didn't have any interest in befriending the new 'homo in town.'

No, he hadn't used the slurs, but what he had been saying was almost as bad.

"Blaine doesn't even know you said those things," Kurt said quietly, in that intense voice he used when announcing something very serious, like the possibility that Burt was never going to wake up from his coma. "Or if he does, he hasn't said anything about it. And do you want to know something, Finn? It was hard for him to transfer. And I really think that it would have been nice if someone other than his boyfriend or a girl had been nice to him. He's not an alien. He does have feelings."

Kurt pushed his chair back slightly, no where near as violently as he had done when he first stormed out. "I haven't forgiven you," he said matter-of-factly, "but if you actually try hard to make this work, then I might take it into consideration."

"I'm sorry," Finn blurted. "I'm really sorry, Kurt."

Kurt just shook his head. "Prove it."

And then he disappeared around the threshold, his footsteps retreating softly upstairs.

* * *

Finn was still sitting at the kitchen table when his mom finally got back from work, setting down some groceries on the counter and looking at him curiously. "Something wrong, hun?" she asked, noticing that he wasn't leaping up for the opportunity to peruse new food.

Finn lifted and dropped one shoulder. "No," he said simply, getting up and walking out with her to pick up the rest of the groceries.

They didn't speak much while she prepared dinner. Finn intermittently asked her about her day and picked off Doritos, doing his best to distract himself even though it was impossible.

I actually said that. I really screwed up this time.

Kurt hadn't emerged from upstairs since he'd left, even though Finn had heard the showering running at one point. He winced slightly at the thought of confronting him again, especially since he still didn't have his thoughts in any order.

Four times. How the hell was he slushied that many times in less than a week?

Then, hunching his shoulders slightly: Why didn't they say anything?

Idiot, he mentally berated himself. They shouldn't have had to tell him anything. He should have figured it out on his own. Blaine wearing Kurt's shirts. Blaine with that almost sickly sweet smell of too much corn syrup whenever he stepped past Finn. Blaine with damp hair, food dye tinted cheeks.

How did I not notice that? Finn thought, amazed, as he silently revisited some of his memories of the past few days.

It was so obvious, but since neither of them had said anything, he had been happy to ignore it. Happy, in fact, that he didn't have to intervene, since it increased the likelihood that he would be allowed to salvage his reputation in private without their 'gay influence' affecting his own reputation.

Finn felt slightly sick. He was a homophobe.

Kurt was right.

And he was very, very wrong.

"Finn, hun? You don't look so well. Are you sick?"

"I . . . I need to talk to Kurt."

"He's upstairs," his mom said, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Finn said. Then: "Yes." He dropped the bag of Doritos and quickly doused the cheesy residue off under the sink, patting his hands down with a paper towel before darting out of the kitchen. He didn't want to be stopped now for extra questions; he just had to make it clear to Kurt that he didn't mean to, he didn't mean it--

But he had. He had, because he had meant to preserve his reputation, and that was all that mattered.

With a groan, Finn sat hard on the edge of the couch, gazing at the black TV screen blankly. How did he even begin to fix this?

Almost instantly, the answer came to him: Blaine. Of course.

The one who deserved the real apology. The one who could get through to Kurt. The only one keeping them in any form of contact.

"Finn? What's wrong?" his mom asked, reappearing.

Finn shook his head. "I need to talk with Blaine."

"Okay," his mom said, clearly confused but at least willing to listen. "Do you know his number?"

Finn paused. No, he didn't, but . . . "I know his address." He had dropped Kurt off, once, during the summer, and so long as Blaine hadn't moved without letting them know, then Finn knew where he was.

"You want to drive all the way out to Westerville?" his mom said, surprised. "Hun, couldn't this wait until tomorrow . . . ?"

Before she could finish, Finn was already on his feet, shaking his head. "Can I borrow your car?" he asked, rather hesitantly.

His mom pursed her lips before walking back in the kitchen and emerging with the keys. "Just . . . don't do anything stupid, okay, Finn? You're a smart boy, and I trust you, but this . . . I feel like something's wrong."

"That's why I'm going to try and make it right," Finn said, hugging her quickly in gratitude before walking out of the front door towards his mom's car.

Hopefully, he thought silently to himself. And though he hadn't really prayed since the Grilled Cheesus fiasco back in junior year, he decided that now was a pretty good time for some divine intervention.

Please let this work out, he pleaded silently.

* * *

"Blaine, there's someone at the door for you."

Blaine frowned, snapping his history book shut and rolling over so that he could scoot off his bed. It was almost seven o'clock, and he knew for a fact that Kurt wasn't coming over that night. His dad was home, for one, and his mom was busy filing work away for the animal shelter. Not exactly the most pleasant time of day to be around the Anderson household; most people avoided it like the plague when Brian Anderson was around, despite his congenial disposition towards charities.

Understandably, Blaine thought, as he hurried down the stairs and gave his dad a quick questioning look -- who is it? -- before his dad wordlessly pushed the door open a little further.

Blaine's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Finn?" he asked, stunned. What the hell was Finn doing there?

He hadn't heard from Kurt at all, despite several casual texts he'd sent inquiring about how things were going with Finn. Badly, Blaine thought, wincing, as he gestured Finn inside. If it's bad enough that Finn feels like he has to come here. . . .

Brian stared Finn down skeptically, slightly dwarfed by the quarterback. He retreated wordlessly towards the living room where Emily was still working on her laptop, casting Blaine a brief look that said No funny business so loudly Blaine nearly rolled his eyes.

"Can we talk in private?" Finn asked quietly.

Brian cleared his throat loudly from the living room. Blaine sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Um. Sort of. Do you mind taking a drive? It's getting kind of dark, so I don't think a walk would be good, but. . . ."

"Uh, sure," Finn muttered.

"Be back before ten," Brian said promptly from the living room.

Blaine gestured Finn back towards the door, grabbing a hoodie off the edge of the stairwell as he did so. "Just ignore him," he whispered.

Finn shut the door behind them, leading the way towards his car and climbing into the driver's seat without comment. Blaine did the same on the passenger side, motioning for Finn to start. "Trust me, just drive a ways," he said, waving his hand. "He'll think we're doing something . . . scandalous otherwise."

Finn blushed scarlet and the car nearly jumped as he pressed down on the gas pedal. "Sorry," Blaine said apologetically. "He's just a little . . . undecided about the issue."

"Apparently," Finn muttered, still red. "You'll tell him we weren't . . . ?"

Blaine shrugged slightly. "It won't change his mind. If we were sitting on a couch in front of him he would still think we were having sex somehow. Because that's all gay guys do," he added in a disgusted sort of tone. "Honestly. I think he's just pissed because he lost a case."

"Lost a case?"

"Oh, he's a lawyer. Works for a 'big fancy firm.'" Blaine shrugged. "You can just go a little further, there's a park up ahead. I don't want you wasting gas over this."

"It's fine. Why's he so . . . biased?"

Blaine shrugged again. "Various reasons. Here, park up there," he added, gesturing towards a semi-filled lot. It was dark enough that there weren't too many people out, but there were still a few minglers hanging around the edges. "One," Blaine said, ticking it off his fingers, "I'm his only son. If I'm gay, I can't exactly carry on the family line, can I?"

"No," Finn muttered, tapping his fingers silently against the steering wheel.

"Two: His father's very . . . conservative. Takes a lot of very old-fashioned stances on marriage and thinks that gays are just rebels trying to stir the pot. So he does his best to appease his father, which means that he starts seeing my homosexuality as a choice. I'm like the family rebel," he added conspiratorially. "Drives my cousins crazy. They think I've just got some sort of grudge against my dad or something and that's why I won't just settle for a girl." He smiled humorlessly.

"And three: Why would you support a son who's gay? It's kind of uncomfortable, and extremely awkward at parties. 'Oh, by the way, my son likes other boys.'" Blaine wrinkled his nose and spread his hands. "Need I go on?"

Finn sat in silence, staring out the windshield. "But . . . you're so nice to Kurt."

Blaine bowed his head slightly in recognition. "Because you're generally nice to the people you like, yes," he added helpfully, when Finn didn't seem inclined to speak.

Finn shook his head, forcibly breaking himself out of his reverie. "I mean . . . if your dad's that anti-gay, why are you so nice?"

"He's not really 'anti-gay.' He's more 'pro-straight.' And my parents are great people, for all their faults. And if we keep sexuality off the table, it's civil." He shrugged a third time, unconcerned. "It's not like they're evil people or something."

For a moment, he saw a flicker of pain cross Finn's face before he subdued it. "I . . . see."

"We don't have to talk about this," Blaine suggested lightly. "In fact, I would say there's something you want to talk about more, since I don't think you drove out here for the scenery?"

"No," Finn said quietly, gripping the steering wheel. "I didn't."

The silence stretched between them, Finn's fingers alternately gripping and releasing the steering wheel. At last, he said, "I'm . . . I'm so sorry, dude," and it was then that Blaine realized his voice was hoarse. Not crying, just . . . well, a lot of things. Frustrated, sad, disappointed, angry, resentful, bitter.

Blaine didn't respond.

"Kurt's right," he went on. "I haven't been treating either of you right. I've . . . I've been a real jerk about this whole thing. And I don't know how to make this better." He thumped a fist in frustration against the steering wheel, nearly honking the horn.

"Well," Blaine said slowly. "The PFLAG is a good start."

Finn snorted a little bitterly. "Tell that to Kurt."

"This hits really close to home for him," Blaine said. "It's like . . . well, I wouldn't say Karofsky all over again--" Finn flinched "--but definitely upsetting for him. He thought you were on his side."

"I am," Finn said at once. Then: "Both of yours."

Blaine paused, silently considering it. "Show him that, and he'll believe you," he said simply.

Instead of looking relieved, Finn just looked more frustrated, rubbing the back of his neck. "How?" he asked bluntly.

Blaine shrugged a little. "You could start by actually speaking to him more than once a day in school," he suggested.

Finn grimaced. "Has it really gotten that bad?"

"It's only the second week of school, but unless you want this to worsen, then I definitely think you need to get on top of this," Blaine said seriously. "Kurt will hold a grudge."

For some reason, Finn smiled a little, ironic and sour. "And you won't?"

Blaine shrugged. "Holding grudges against your friends doesn't do anything in the long run," he said.

Finn barked a laugh. "I can't believe you can still refer to me as a friend after everything I've done to you."

"You haven't done anything to me," Blaine pointed out.

"Dude, I didn't step in--"

"No, you didn't step in. But you weren't the initiator, either." Blaine's expression darkened a little, and he dropped an arm reflexively to cradle his left side, out of Finn's listless line of sight. "That makes a difference. Trust me."

"But Kurt--"

"Thinks they're the same, I know. But the first one's a lot easier to forgive. He can and will forgive you if you play your cards right, Finn. If you stepped over the line between 'not doing anything' to being the perpetrator, then you would have a serious problem."

Finn shifted his gaze morosely to Blaine. "And this isn't already a serious problem?"

"I like to think of this as only the beginning of a potentially serious problem," Blaine said lightly.

Finn sighed.

"I know it's hard. I know what it's like to 'play straight,'" he added, voice low enough Finn had to lean visibly towards him to hear it. His gaze flickered over, noticed the way he was holding his ribs and frowned.

"They didn't . . . ?"

"No," Blaine said at once, pulling his hand away. That was an old wound, more of a phantom pain than anything.

"You just need to keep trying," Blaine went on, doing his best to sound encouraging. If he helped Finn, that meant Finn might be able to finally get on good terms with Kurt again, which meant that Kurt would be happier and Blaine would be happier because he was happier. Until then, it was an endless loop of misery, one that Blaine had no intention of allowing. "Don't give up so soon because it seems like he won't forgive you. He's hurting. He's angry. Of course it's going to take some time for him to consider your apology seriously."

"And until then?"

"Keep up with the PFLAG," Blaine urged. "And don't lose sight of why this matters."

Silence. At last, Finn put the car back in drive and slowly made his way back toward the Anderson residence. As he stepped out of the car and Blaine did the same on the other side, he waited until Blaine was standing on the same side of the car as he was before clearing his throat slightly. "Would it . . . would it be weird to hug you right now?"

Blaine shrugged a tiny bit. "No," he said with such a gravity to his voice that Finn suspected this dredged up memories from a time long before he had known Blaine. Probably before Kurt had known Blaine, too.

Wordlessly, not caring if it looked gay or straight in the eyes of potentially onlookers, Finn stepped forward and hugged him.

It was amazing, he realized, even as he stepped back and muttered a general 'Thank you,' to realize just how little Kurt's boyfriend was. Finn knew that from a purely clinical stance Blaine was considered short for a guy. He was compact, but that didn't make him seem any less fragile in his own way. He was more vulnerable, too, up close: he didn't have anyone standing beside him like Finn supposedly was for Kurt.

I will fix this, Finn thought fiercely, watching Blaine step back inside before turning on the ignition once more. I will.

He drove back to Lima musing on thoughts of how he could win over Kurt's true forgiveness, and possibly show Blaine that he had his back, too. Maybe both at once, he thought, checking the clock absently.

And when he finally rolled in at ten fifty-four back at the Hudson-Hummel residence, stomach growling and mind somewhat calmed, he knew that visiting Blaine had been the right thing.

* * *

Blaine didn't know what to make of it.

Is it weird to accept a hug from your boyfriend's straight stepbrother?

Yes, Blaine's practical side put in smartly.

No, a different side protested.

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until lanky arms wrapped around him briefly, giving him one hard squeeze before backing off. Blaine blinked, dazed. For one heart beat, it had been . . . well, protected. Kind of like Kurt, but different: with Kurt, it was a partnership, a sharing of the weight.

With Finn, he let a tiny, vulnerable part of him admit, it was like being hugged by a friend. A casual embrace that should have meant nothing but instead dizzied him. He couldn't remember the last time someone who didn't attend Dalton and wasn't an adult had actually hugged him (besides Kurt, of course). The real world avoided 'gay' like the plague, and Finn hadn't struck him as a likely candidate to break the habit, despite the fact that he was fine with them being gay. He just didn't want to have any part of their 'difference.'

Walking stiff-legged back towards his house, knowing that his dad would have that look on his face and his mom would just be staring at her laptop screen, Blaine wondered what it would be like if other the other guys actually did accept him.

He smiled a little at the thought.

* * *

"So?" Burt asked, impeccably reminding Finn of his son.

Finn brushed his hands off on the napkin and leaned back in his chair, shrugging a little. "It's not perfect yet," he said, "but I think I'm finally making things right."

Burt stared at him, calculating, for several moments, before finally nodding. "I'm glad to hear it. And Finn? They'll appreciate it. I'm proud of you for what you're trying to do, and if you follow through with it, I think you'll be happy with the results too."

Finn glanced upwards briefly, knowing that Kurt was probably mulling over the situation upstairs. Then he said simply, "I hope so," and stood up. "Thank you, Burt."

"You're welcome, kid."

He disappeared up the stairs, retreating to his own room.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hello, glog-o-sphere, Jacob Ben Israel here with your morning report. Finn Hudson, you allegedly broke into Coach Beiste's office last night and printed off these fliers." The camera whirled around to zoom in on one of the PFLAG fliers, quickly reorienting back on the quarterback as he dug through his locker. "Any comments on this scandalous matter?"

"It's true," Finn said calmly, shutting his locker and shouldering his backpack, "but we had permission. Coach Beiste says she's all for it."

"Would you care to explain this sudden and sexually ambiguous decision to begin a club that is known for fostering teen gay colonies?" Ben Israel thrust the fake microphone in Finn's face. Finn rolled his eyes and pushed it back slightly.

"Maybe you could take something away from it," he suggested, walking away.

"Do you know that your popularity is plummeting exponentially?" Ben Israel called loudly after him. "Any comment on how your poll numbers are in the gutters?"

Nope, Finn thought cheerfully, because I don't have to talk to you.

* * *

"Kurt Hummel--"

"So help me Gaga, Jacob, I will hack onto your website and delete all of your files if you try and interview me," Kurt said firmly, shutting the Spanish door in his face.

"Blaine Anderson -- newest New Directions member -- any comment on this latest fiasco started by defamed quarterback Finn Hudson?"

"Well--"

"Trust me, you don't want to talk to him," Mercedes said, grabbing his upper arm and dragging him away.

"Mercedes Jones--"

"Good morning to you too, idiot, I'm Miss Jones' boyfriend," Marcus greeted, the left half of his torso filling the screen. There was a brief strangled noise followed by a hasty 'Let's check out the chemistry lab for their reports!' before both cameraman and blogger fled.

* * *

"Rachel Berry -- lead singer for the glee club, potential president, and abiding soloist in the glee club production of West Side Singer."

"Actually, it's West Side Story--"

"Do you have any comments on this latest vicious development that your sexually ambiguous sweetheart Finn Hudson has started?"

"I'm completely in favor of it. Not only do I believe in it on principle, but it will also ensure that I have had representation in every division of this school and thus unite my college-bound aims."

"What do you think about Finn Hudson's sexual ambiguity?"

Rachel blinked. "Just because he started this club doesn't make him--"

"Totally gay," Jacob Ben Israel finished conclusively.

* * *

"Mike Chang, Tina Cohen-Chang, what are your opinions on this uproarious dissention from the glee club norm?"

"We've always represented some of everyone," Mike said calmly. "As far as I'm concerned, this is just another expression of that."

"Totally," Tina agreed. "Plus, I think it's about time we started a club that showed gay people some appreciation."

"Is this confirmation, then, that everyone in glee club is gay and you are all acting as each other's beards?"

Tina rolled her eyes while Mike snorted.

"I thought I told you to get the hell away from us," Marcus rumbled off-screen.

There was a pause followed by a quaking and high-pitched shriek before the screen went black.

* * *

"Who else got interrogated by Jacob Ben Imbecile this morning?" Mercedes asked, stepping into the choir room and tossing her bag on the floor beside a chair.

"I did," Artie piped in. "I just pretended that I couldn't speak English anymore due to a radioactive spider bite on my arm." He gestured at the rather unpleasant looking bite on his arm as evidence, nodding sagely.

"I wish I had a radioactive spider bite," Brittany said, looking longingly in Artie's direction.

The rest of the glee club offered various stories, but Kurt, who was still unwilling to forgive Finn so easily, sat silently in the back row with Blaine.

Rather than trying to get him to say what was wrong, Blaine just reached over and held his hand upturned invitingly. Kurt wordlessly took it, listening to the babble until Mr. Schue entered the room and it died out.

"Morning, guys. Why all the long faces?"

"Ben Israel," Mercedes said, shaking her head. "He's posting all over his glog about how 'gay' we are for supporting the PFLAG movement."

Mr. Schue frowned and dropped his bag down on the piano bench, leaning against it. "Word gets around that fast, huh?"

"We did sort of post thirty six fliers around the school," Finn pointed out. "It kind of spread itself, really."

Mr. Schue continued to frown, looking like he wished there was some magic solution he could hand out that would make everyone happy. It doesn't work that way, Kurt thought bitterly. His face must have looked particularly foreboding then for Blaine gave his hand a light squeeze and looked at him with a What's wrong? question plain on his face.

Kurt closed his eyes and shook his head a tiny bit.

Blaine leaned back in his seat a little, silently retreating.

"I'm proud of you guys for sticking up for it," Mr. Schue said at last, clasping his hands together. "I think it'll benefit more than just us, too."

Of course it will, Kurt thought, feeling extremely uncharitable. Finn had lost a lot of his popularity by standing up and actually posting the fliers, yes, but Kurt still wasn't prepared to forgive him.

Why? You forgave Karofsky after one ten-minute conversation.

That was different. He was gay, and struggling in the closet, and--

And Finn can't be struggling, too? You can't give him a break, too?

Kurt shut off those mutinous thoughts firmly, not in the mood to argue with his own rationality. There was something about Dave Karofsky that wouldn't stop bothering him. Just last night he had had a nightmarish dream about Karofsky returning to McKinley as his former 'I don't know what this kid's capable of' self. That had been a dark era, indeed, a time when Kurt didn't even like putting his back to doors for fear that Karofsky would be pushed over the edge by something one day and decide to kill him. He hadn't ruled out the possibility that Karofsky would have done it in public, either, since Karofsky hadn't seemed to care one way or the other at one point in time.

But then he had reformed -- albeit for an unusual reason -- and seemed almost on the verge of joining glee club during the Thriller/Heads Will Roll mash-up. Kurt had been so proud of the New Directions for pulling it together and keeping themselves in the championship (even if he had been terrified watching Tina run with the ball), but mostly he had been surprised and, admittedly, hurt that they welcomed Karofsky and the rest of his old tormentors in with open arms.

I had to leave this school because of him, and you're willing to let him perform with you?

Blaine had done his best to keep his mind off the depressing realization that the glee club could not only move on but forget the past crimes of others now that he was away. He had kept up a continuous stream of talk about how amazing the game turned out to be and how he was glad the Titans had pulled off the victory.

Kurt, however, had only held his cold coffee and listened with half an ear, still distracted by thoughts of what it would have been like if he had been there, too.

I was a football player once, he mused. I could have been on that field.

Of course, Kurt would have never consented to something so crude as tackling and getting tackled, but he would have been there for moral support and for the half-time number. Being excluded had made him feel almost numb with disbelief; they've moved on.

But there was another side to Karofsky that Kurt had only found out about when the New Directions were preparing for their big Lady Gaga 'Born This Way' performance. The side of Karofsky that wouldn't mind setting aside previous differences if it meant Kurt would come back to McKinley. The side that wouldn't torment him every day for who he was and would do his best to avoid the slurs and taunts.

The side that Kurt hadn't even believed could exist in a guy like Dave Karofsky.

But it had been there, and for once, not even the threat of a false change-of-heart could keep Kurt at bay from returning to McKinley. He had wanted it so badly that the thought of another week at Dalton, while not unbearable, seemed almost intolerable in its own way. I want to be back with them. I want to be back with my friends.

Surveying the room now, Kurt wondered if he had come back at all, or if he truly had lost his chance when Karofsky drove him out of his school.

I forgave him when he did all of that. I forgave him for threatening to kill me.

But I can't even forgive Finn.

Kurt looked at Finn, who was sitting in the second row next to Rachel, listening to Mr. Schue speak with the same almost vacant expression that he always wore.

Why was it so much easier to forgive the bully who had threatened to kill him than his own stepbrother?

He dismissed his first suspicion almost as soon as he thought of it. Finn had hurt Blaine in a way, true, but so had Karofsky. For one petrifying moment, Kurt had watched Karofsky drive Blaine back against a fence, looking like something possessed, something inhuman, and fully prepared to accept any and all consequences. Kurt had had to step in then, and whether it was instinct or conscious thought driving him, he had pushed Karofsky off, a strength he hadn't had alone found when he had someone else there who needed him to be strong for once. That had been the moment when Kurt realized just how deep he was in: Karofsky was willing to attack relative strangers who defended him.

Maybe it was because Karofsky was gay, and Finn wasn't. Kurt had felt a strange kinship to his former bully when he apologized, realizing for the first time that all of that anger, that hate, stemmed from something more than simple bullying. Karofsky had to live with the same problems that Kurt did, but unlike Kurt, he didn't seem to have found the same support system around him. Between Blaine and his dad, Kurt had held himself together during the worst of it. Karofsky didn't seem to have anyone supporting him.

But that still didn't explain why he couldn't forgive Finn.

Sighing slightly to himself and firmly interlacing his fingers with Blaine's (his had gone a little slack as Mr. Schue's speech droned on), Kurt stared at the back of Finn's head, trying to figure it all out.

* * *

"Okay, don't even try that one, dummy," Blaine said, and casually handed the barista a ten-dollar bill as Kurt reached for his wallet.

Kurt rolled his eyes and accepted their drinks, Blaine's 'keep the change' falling on deaf ears. "You must be the world's most generous tipper ever," he said, selecting a table closer to the back of the shop so they were somewhat isolated from the rest of the general crowd. Blaine sat down in his seat and promptly popped the lid off his coffee, shrugging a little as he sprinkled some sugar in it.

"Coffee-deprived people are the worst brand of humans imaginable. Therefore, I feel like it's only fitting that someone should give back to the poor people dealing with them all the time." He cupped the lid back on and took a long sip, then threw in nonchalantly, "Plus, I know what it's like to be standing behind the counter, and it is not fun."

"Ah, I knew you had some reason for the coffee obsession," Kurt said with a grin. "When did this misfortune happen?"

"Two summers ago, between sophomore and junior year. Last one before I met you," he added in a matter-of-fact tone. "I decided that in order to spend less time around my parents and more time being productive, I'd get a job. Coffee barista opened up, I took it, and voila." He gestured dramatically with his cup before shrugging. "It is the most . . . chaotic job ever."

"I can imagine," Kurt said dryly. "Did it pay well?"

"You'd be surprised how well." Kurt's eyebrows lifted, surprised. "Especially with tips," he added with a slight smile. "So I feel like it's only my obligation to help those less fortunate than I who are still struggling with being behind the coffee counter." He took another long sip of his coffee, eyeing Kurt, who simply shook his head.

"Is this the moment where I also learn you were a matador in another life?"

Blaine chuckled, setting down his coffee, and shook his head. "Most exciting thing I ever did was disc jockeyed for a half hour," he assured.

Kurt's eyebrows arched up a little higher. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Sophomore year, my friend James had to handle some 'girlfriend issues' so he told me to watch the system for a bit. It was pretty crazy. Tons of buttons. I just did my best not to break anything."

Kurt smiled slightly. "I would never have thought it of you," he said lightly.

"Personally, neither would I. And I probably wouldn't do it again. I don't even remember how that night ended, it was all so crazy--"

Abruptly, Blaine's face closed off.

The slight, musing smile faded a little, his jaw stiffening as he shut his mouth. Kurt tilted his head inquiringly, wondering what had set him off.

For a time, it didn't seem like Blaine would answer. Then, quietly: "That, ah, that was the Sadie Hawkins night," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh," Kurt said softly. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine," Blaine said, eager to pick out a different conversation. "I just . . . kind of forgot for a minute." He laughed weakly, taking a sip of his coffee. "So tell me," he said, deliberately changing the subject, "what's going on with you and Finn?"

It was Kurt's turn to feel defensive as he shook his head, gripping the coffee cup like it was a lifeline. "It's . . . going," he hedged.

Blaine's smile was knowing. "Mmm. Not at all, I take it?"

Kurt sighed. "I don't know why it's so hard to forgive him. I should. I forgave Karofsky for worse things than Finn did. . . ."

"But you also had weeks to sort out your feelings on that," Blaine pointed out. "Unlike now. It's only been two days, Kurt. Don't beat yourself up if you haven't exactly forgiven him for everything yet."

Kurt sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I know. I just . . . I don't know. Am I a terrible person for all of this? Am I overreacting?"

"Not at all," Blaine assured. "It's completely natural to be upset about something like this."

Kurt's lips quirked in an odd little smile. "But you're not upset."

"No," Blaine agreed. "I'm not. Or at least, not that much. But don't think that you have to act the same way for it to be acceptable or normal or something like that."

Kurt grunted a little in frustration.

"I know it's hard," Blaine said soothingly, "but I really think Finn's going in the right direction with this, and I think that you'll be able to forgive him soon enough, too."

"When?" Kurt asked, unable to help himself.

Blaine smiled a little. "My sage advice would be soon, but all I can say is that you don't want to rush it or you'll just regret it later. So take your time. Finn can let himself mull a little over this, too."

Kurt sighed again, which prompted Blaine to reach over and grab his hand once again, giving it a squeeze. "I'm right here with you, okay? Whatever you decide."

Kurt looked down at their intertwined fingers before nodding once. "Thank you," he said softly, and "You're welcome," Blaine replied.

* * *

"Y'know, I'm thinking of joining this glee club," Marcus said in his usual rumbling tone. Walking beside Blaine, he looked almost comically large with the general proportions of an adolescent rhinoceros. "You guys get all the attention around here. Seems pretty nice."

"It's attention," Blaine agreed while students cleared away before Marcus' approaching form could barrel them over. "Not exactly the most positive, but attention, nonetheless."

"What? Are they treating you badly or something? Just say the word, I will crush any of their thick heads together," Marcus said seriously.

Blaine grinned. "You're an okay guy, you know that, Marcus?"

"Damn straight. One thing I learned about integrity: You stick by your girl. Make her unhappy, she'll make you wish you were never born. And if my girl's friends are being harassed in any way, I will take care of it."

"Good morning, Tinkerbell," a voice chimed in at precisely that moment. "You like lemonade?"

"I love it," Marcus said loudly, turning around at the same moment Blaine did. "You offering?"

Azimio halted, sizing the new guy up, and with a visible scowl realized that Marcus was both taller and larger than he was. "Let me handle the fairies," he said in an admirably undaunted tone.

Marcus, however, sensed that there was something wrong and breathed in deep, knuckles flexing. "This one of those guys harassing you?" he asked Blaine casually.

Azimio glanced at Blaine with an expression of You kidding me? that was so sincere Blaine almost laughed aloud.

"Yes," Blaine said gravely and watched with great satisfaction as Marcus grabbed Azimio's slushie and drank half of it in one gulp.

"Have a good day to you too, sir," he said while Azimio stormed off. "And I want to join that z-flag thing of yours," he added, looking back down at Blaine as he finished the rest of the slushie off and tossed it in a trash bin. "More time with my girl and free slushies? I'm all in."

Blaine grinned. "We'd love to have you," he assured. "PFLAG needs straight guys."

Marcus grunted and nodded, repeating, "Damn straight," with a tone of mingled finality and amusement.

* * *

"No slushy today?" Kurt asked, surprised.

"Mercedes' boyfriend," was all Blaine said, grinning slightly as he settled back in his seat.

"All right, guys!" Mr. Schue said, stepping into the room and clapping his hands together. "I would like to introduce to you our newest member of glee club."

Marcus tromped in, carrying what looked like a grape slushy in one hand. "Hey all," he said, grinning. "Brought a snack, anyone wants it."

"Marcus has agreed to temporarily fill the spot of our eleventh member," Mr. Schue explained, as Marcus walked over and sat beside Mercedes, who grinned adoringly up at him. "He won't actually be competing with us, but not all members of the glee club have to perform every number, so, he's filling one of our spaces in the mean time."

"Couldn't we do that with Sugar?" Brittany asked, toying with her unicorn drawing and a pink crayon.

Mr. Schue actually grimaced as he shook his head. "Sugar insists on singing, which, as some of you have pointed out," he gave a very pointed look at Rachel, who straightened importantly, "would diminish our performance overall."

"Do we get free food in here?" Marcus asked casually, gulping down a mouthful of purple slush.

"I'm sure we can make adjustments, baby," Mercedes said, leaning against his arm.

Marcus rumbled approvingly.

Blaine and Kurt exchanged a look -- not the best, but we'll definitely work with him -- before breaking out into simultaneous grins.

One more. That's all we need.

* * *

Kurt closed his eyes and listened to the hum of noise below him, still somewhat jarring even though it had been two nights since he'd stayed at Blaine's. He had half-wanted to call him and beg to stay there again, but Blaine's dad was still around and that immediately took that option off the consideration table. It didn't stop Kurt's subconscious from wanting, though, even if he knew he couldn't change it.

A light knock on the door reminded him that there was a world outside of his room, Carole's face appearing a moment later. "Hey, Kurt? Dinner's ready."

"Okay," Kurt said, mindlessly sliding off his bed and shutting his French notebook behind him.

He had been mostly avoiding contact with the rest of the family since he got home, taking an early shower to excuse himself from greeting both his dad and Carole when eventually they ambled in. Finn, of course, had only looked at him once before wordlessly retreating to the living room, seeming to sense that he was not going to be making any progress speaking with Kurt now.

Climbing delicately down the stairs after Carole, Kurt walked into the kitchen without looking at anyone, taking his seat carefully. He hadn't come down the night before -- Carole had eventually conceded to just bring him a plate -- but tonight he knew that he had to at least let Finn try to resolve this rather than pushing him further away.

Still, the moment Finn edged into the kitchen Kurt felt himself clam up, and he silently sat there picking at his food and listening to the rest of the conversation without speaking. By the time it was over, he picked up his empty plate, put it in the sink, and walked away without a word, feeling part guilty, part empty.

Is this how it's going to be? he wondered, flopping back onto his bed. Just ignore each other until we leave and never see each other again?

Finn wants to fix this. You need to let him, Kurt's 'inner Blaine' chastised.

Shush. You were the one who said I could take my time with this.

Don't be unreasonable. It's not fair to completely put this all on Finn. You have to concede some, too.

Kurt harrumphed and rolled over until his face was pressed into his pillow. "Go away," he muttered to no one.

A timeless period passed, during which Kurt seriously considered just falling asleep like this without bothering with his nightly routine, when his phone buzzed.

The noise was so startling that he sat upright and fumbled around for several moments before he realized what it was. Then he had to do some more fumbling to relocate his phone, which had slipped out of his pocket and across the bed in the process. Grabbing it, he smiled at the From Blaine and hit the 'read now' button.

I love you. Don't worry about Finn too much. Keep faith. It'll work out. - B

For someone 'hopeless at romance,' Blaine was fantastic at knowing exactly what to say, Kurt thought, smiling slightly as his fingers lingered over the keys, wondering what to write back.

In the end, at just after ten thirty that night, he typed out six simple words:

Thanks, B. I love you too.


	10. Chapter 10

The pre-retching feeling wouldn't let Kurt eat on Friday morning despite Carole's mild insistence that he should at least take something with him. He had wanted to simply curl up underneath his covers and wait for Blaine to text the results of the 'Glee Club Presidential Election' to him, but he knew that practically he still had the rest of school to deal with beyond glee. Handling the official decision of Rachel's insanity seemed almost unbearable now that it was actually here.

Of course they're going to elect Rachel. And she'll go completely crazy and we'll all fall to pieces.

Kurt sighed, shouldered his satchel, and bravely pressed onward, ignoring the general ebb and flow of students around him. He didn't want to be here -- one, it was a Friday, and no one wanted to be in school on a Friday as far as he was concerned -- but for more reasons than simply the day of the week. He had glee first, which meant that he would know the dreaded results without too much anticipation. It also meant that, come what may, he would have to plow through the rest of the day with said results lingering over his head.

This is ridiculous, he thought, flicking through his locker combination and tugging it open. I just need to grit my teeth and bear it. That's all there is to it.

Dissatisfied with rationality's bracing attempt at cajoling himself, Kurt tugged out his books for the rest of his morning classes and shut his locker once more.

It can't be that bad. It's just an election. One tiny election. Not the end of the world.

Kurt smiled grimly.

The world, no. The end of my enjoyment of glee club, yes.

And then the fire alarm rang.

Seriously? This early? Kurt thought in exasperation as pandemonium erupted around him. It was tradition that some egotistical idiot had to pull the alarm at least once a month, and apparently said idiot had decided to start a little early this year.

If only he'd known how complicated it would become.

* * *

"This is exactly why we need a president of glee club," Rachel told Kurt in a confiding tone, practically bouncing on her heels. She was standing in the middle of the football stadium with him and the rest of the school, the glee club congregated in a general sphere around them. "Organization," Rachel added seriously. "We need to be more organized for our competitions or--"

Kurt rolled his eyes, not caring if she saw or not. "Rachel, this isn't a problem of organization. This is someone pulling a fire alarm. It's pretty elementary."

"Well, it wasn't me," Puck prompted, crossing his arms as he surveyed the school without interest. "First of all, it's stupid. Second, it doesn't even get you out of school for a day, and third--"

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Puckerman," a new voice interrupted. Lauren appeared a moment later, one binder tucked in her arms as she looked him up and down skeptically. "I would have thought you would have been responsible for this sort of juvenile delinquency. It seems to be your forte."

Puck scowled. "Pulling the fire alarm is like fifth-grader cool. Not twelfth grade awesomeness. I'd have to actually set a fire to get that sort of notoriety."

"Well, you might just get your wish," Mr. Schue piped in. "According to Figgins, this is legitimate. Someone set off a fire in the chem lab."

"For real?" Puck asked, raising his eyebrows. "How come I didn't hear about this badassery beforehand?"

"Maybe because the culprit would have been caught if you'd known," Kurt suggested dryly.

"It's a real fire?" Rachel asked, her voice instantly switching from 'leader' to 'diva.' "I can put this in my future bestselling biography! Of course, I'll have to spruce up the deal--"

"Berry, no one wants to hear about your future plans for a bestseller," Puck broke in loudly.

"Tetchy," Lauren said, elbowing him.

Puck grunted noncommittally.

"Where the hell is everyone else?" Finn interrupted, stepping forward. Tina, Mike, and Artie were at his shoulder, looking surprised. "We can't find Brittany, Blaine, or Mercedes."

"The hell? My girl's in there?" Marcus demanded, turning to join the circular conversation and swelling impressively. "Whose door I gotta break down?"

"Guys, calm down. I'm sure they're around here somewhere," Mr. Schue said, waving his hands in a placating way.

"You would do well to keep better organization of your precious glee clubbers, butterhead," a familiar voice said loudly nearby.

"Thanks, Sue, but I don't need your advice," Mr. Schue retorted, just as loudly, turning to face her.

"Really? Because it would seem like you're missing a pretty penny's worth of your little glee club. I would have thought you would have had better leashes for those flee-bitten rodents."

"Sue--"

Kurt's phone buzzed.

"You know, for someone who's so obsessed with her poll numbers, I'm surprised you haven't noticed the surge in popularity of that rapist from prison," Mr. Schue quipped.

Tugging his phone out, Kurt noticed the From Brittany and frowned. To his knowledge, she didn't even know how to use a cell phone unless someone else was instructing her exactly what to do.

"Well, midget, I would suggest a copious amount of dishwater detergent to wash out that hideous mane of lard that you have but I fear it would back up the plumbing system to the other side of the state."

Is it a drill?

Kurt stared at the screen, brow furrowed, baffled.

Is what a drill? he wrote back, suspecting that it was one of Brittany's more eccentric observations.

"Sue, you are a terrible influence on your Cheerios--"

"I raise my Cheerios to be champions. If I must squeeze every ounce of blood, tears, and dreams from these kids to do it, so be it."

The fire alarm.

Well, Kurt thought, more confused than ever. That made sense, but from Brittany, it might as well have been calculus. The answer startled him so much that he didn't respond for several moments. At last, another text: Hello?

No. It's not a drill. What are you doing?

"I remind you that I have won six consecutive cheerleading championships--"

"But not a seventh?" Mr. Schue broke in in a mock sweet tone. "Oh, that's so terrible, Sue, I can't believe--"

"You watch your mouth or I will rip it off and feed it to homeless pigs as fodder."

Evasive action. One min.

And now Kurt was definitely sure it wasn't Brittany texting, because there was no way Brittany knew what the word 'evasive' meant, let alone how to spell it.

Mercedes?

A long pause. Kurt actually shifted on his feet as he waited, at last peering down anxiously at the screen.

Blaine.

What are you doing with Brittany's phone? Kurt asked at once. His fingers itched for the Call button, and he was already wandering away from the main group of Glee clubbers with his phone pressed to his ear and listening anxiously for a response when it lead him to voice mail.

Can't talk. Smoke. Sorry.

Another disconcertingly long pause. Kurt could vaguely hear Mr. Schue and Sue shouting at each other, the other teachers mingling around uneasily, students in general boredom. There was a brief noise followed by an audible shove and a crow of laughter from the nearby watchers. "You will regret that," Sue said, but Kurt didn't bother listening for the response as Blaine answered.

Took you long enough, he thought, more worried than annoyed.

Phone at home. Underneath chem lab. Complicated.

"What?" Kurt yelped aloud.

"It's a type of marsupial," Rachel informed smartly, clearly referring to the rapidly escalating shouting match between Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester. "They live in--"

"They're still inside," Kurt interrupted. "In the basement."

"The hell?" Marcus repeated, pushing Rachel aside urgently to reach him. "'Cedes?"

Are you alone? Kurt texted in response to Marcus's question.

The answer was mercifully quick, although it still wasn't very encouraging. No. Brittany and Mercedes here.

Can you get out? he hedged, half-terrified to read the answer.

The reply was almost immediate. Not really.

Kurt closed his eyes, doing his best not to think about that.

However. . . .

Blaine, do not do anything stupid, Kurt answered at once. I swear to God, if you do anything dangerous. . . .

I thought you didn't believe in God? He could almost see the smirk on Blaine's face.

Do not joke about this! Kurt argued seriously. Be safe. I don't want you or Brittany or Mercedes getting hurt.

A third long, agonizingly drawn pause. Then: We won't, Blaine promised.

"What the hell's going on?" Finn asked, slipping around Mr. Schue as he shook his head in disgust at Sue. "Who're you talking to?"

"Who do you think?" Kurt retorted, more snappish from nerves than anything. "They're underneath the chem lab."

Finn stared blankly at him for exactly five seconds before swearing once explosively. "How the -- why were they there?"

"I don't know," Kurt bit out, jiggling his phone anxiously in his palm as he waited for some word. "I just--"

Okay. We're definitely stuck.

Kurt's heart plummeted.

That doesn't sound good.

Long, long pause. Kurt swore that the seconds sheared off at least five years of his life as he waited for the response.

At last: It's not.

* * *

The good news about involuntarily choosing your crisis companions, Blaine thought, was that neither was losing her head.

In fact, Brittany seemed a little too calm about the whole thing, wandering around the tiny room in general bemusement, telling no one in particular about her plans for a 'unicorn.' Mercedes, on the other hand, had resorted to sitting at the base of the stairs watching Blaine pace with the phone, alternately looking up the stairwell and back at Brittany.

"All right, prep boy, you're supposed to come from the smart school, what do we do?" she said at last, not sounding the least bit worried.

In a weird sort of way, Blaine wasn't worried, either. The surrealness of the situation hadn't really kicked in: his brain was still half-convinced that he could just walk up the stairwell, open the door, and be standing in the middle of Mrs. Marley's chemistry lab.

Well, he mused dryly, tapping his fingers along the phone as he tried to think of responses and plans at the same time, he could do exactly that. If he didn't mind stepping into a nice big chemical fire, that was.

He should have seen the signs earlier, he realized, when Mercedes had told him that she was going to look for Brittany at Mrs. Marley's. Brittany didn't even take chemistry (somehow, she had passed during her junior year, probably due to assistance from Santana), and she had no reason to be wandering that area of the school in the morning; her class had apparently been in the afternoon anyway. Nevertheless, being a 'nice person,' Blaine had offered to help, since Brittany had a tendency to wander.

Ten minutes before Glee, he found Brittany locked in the basement. Calling Mercedes over, he'd pried the door open and gaped in blind disbelief down at Brittany, who looked completely unalarmed at the predicament. Mercedes had already been walking down to coax her back upstairs when someone shoved Blaine hard from behind and slammed the door behind him. Next second, he heard something heavy being dragged hastily in front of the door (likely one of the chem tables turned on its side) and the distinctly unpleasant smell of arson.

Oh, he'd realized stupidly then, someone's trapped us in.

To his credit, he'd hit the floor and toppled Mercedes in the process, and the nice linoleum floor wasn't forgiving on his skull. Still biting back the urge to curl up in a corner and hold his head as a crushing headache built up in it, he focused on keeping his mental processes together and responding to Kurt's texts as they came. Part of him felt guilty for refusing to let Kurt call and talk to him, to be reassured by the sound of his voice. Another part was certain that the moment he heard Kurt's he would lose all sense of the intangible tranquility he had gained in the room and panic. Which was something neither Brittany nor Mercedes could use, and a reality that he felt himself precipitously near already.

He realized that he was taking a while to respond as the time passed and the smell of burning wood became even more present, but he couldn't help it. There was nothing Kurt could do from his position, anyway, and Blaine wasn't in any immediate danger down here, either.

Well. Not unless the fire spreads, his logical side pointed out.

Shut up, his headache-riddled half retorted.

Looking over at Mercedes, who was gazing up at him in a mixture of curiosity and dubiousness, Blaine shrugged a little.

"We need to get through that door," was all he said.

"I can do it," Brittany volunteered, moving to walk over to the stairwell. Blaine stopped her with a hand on her arm. He'd already made the mistake of grabbing the handle when he first gathered his senses back together and received a blistering burn in return; there was no way he was letting Brittany near the door.

"We need to find a safe way to get through that door," he amended.

"It's safe," Brittany argued, frowning.

Blaine shook his head, rubbing the side of it a moment later. "Do you smell that?"

Brittany frowned.

"The smoke?" Blaine elaborated.

"There's no smoke in here, silly," Brittany said, rolling her eyes and shoving him lightly in the shoulder.

"There's smoke up there," Blaine replied, putting emphasis on the door as he pointed to it.

"Then we can't go through there," Brittany said with such a finality that it amazed Blaine she had volunteered only moments before to go through it.

Instead, Brittany sat down beside Mercedes on the tiny stairwell and clasped her hands on her knees, looking excited. "Is this like a game?" she asked, looking expectantly at Blaine, as though she expected him to perform a magic trick.

I wish, Blaine thought wryly. I'd even just settle for a boring escape route at this point.

There was another tiny exploding noise above as a glass vial burst. Blaine winced a little at the thought of glass littering the floor above, further foiling any contemplation of escaping the conventional way.

His phone -- technically, Brittany's phone, but he didn't really care to correct himself -- vibrated.

Still okay?

Blaine smiled a tiny bit. Yes. We're doing okay, just a little stuck.

If anything, Kurt's reply seemed even more anxious than before. What's it like down there? Is there a lot of smoke?

Blaine closed his eyes momentarily and held the side of his head with one hand as his headache raged. Then, carefully typing so as not to irritate his mounting headache, he replied, Not much. Tight door.

He could almost see Kurt worrying his lower lip.

You're okay?

Blaine shrugged to himself before answering. Fine.

Kurt's answer didn't sound very reassured. Be careful.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes in mild exasperation, Blaine settled for, Promise and handed Mercedes the phone. "It's giving me a headache," he said, which was only partially true, since he'd already had a headache before he started texting Kurt. Mostly, he couldn't think of a way to escape while simultaneously attempting to comfort Kurt, and the most prominent concern was definitely the former.

Looking around, Blaine surveyed the relatively empty room for something.

Inspiration.

His eyes fell on Brittany's discarded hat. I never learned how to read a calendar, she'd told him, almost sadly, one morning when he saw her wearing the same furry winter hat.

A grim smile crossed his face. Well, I can't touch the door directly. . . .

* * *

Kurt felt like he was going to explode from anxiety.

Rachel certainly wasn't helping, still chattering on inanely about how this 'drama' would aid in her future career in some obscure way. It would probably make her something of a celebrity, Kurt thought sourly, if she had a drama like this to include in her adolescence. Of course, some serious editing would be required before publication: Rachel's stand-offish role right now wouldn't warrant much attention otherwise.

She can have her drama, Kurt thought, as long as I still have my boyfriend.

Kurt was doing his best not to think pessimistically, but he couldn't help himself. It had taken ten full minutes before Principal Figgins realized that he needed to call the fire department, during which everyone else seemed relatively unalarmed by the emergency. Several of the nearby football players were talking longingly of being let out early, other students expressing similar sentiments.

Gritting his teeth slightly to avoid snapping at all of them that this wasn't the time to be worrying about something so stupid, he stared at the school and waited.

His phone had been quiet, but Marcus and Finn had apparently been receiving regular updates from Mercedes, who had taken over Brittany's phone. Kurt fretted inwardly that the change in speaker (well, writer, since they still hadn't actually talked with either Blaine or Mercedes) meant something was wrong with Blaine, but he had no way of confirming it when Mercedes insisted that they were all fine.

How can you be fine? he thought, barely holding back hysteria. You're trapped under a burning chemistry lab.

That was exactly the sort of bad luck that had to happen to him; Kurt just thought it was karma's way of being particularly cruel that it was Blaine in his place. He should never have come here, Kurt thought fervently. He should have stayed at Dalton, he should have--

Finn nudged Kurt's shoulder lightly with his own. "You okay?"

Kurt swallowed back a scream. No, I'm not okay, my boyfriend's trapped in there! "I'm fine," he whispered.

"They'll be okay," Finn said, his voice amazingly calm.

Of course, Kurt thought, his emotions whiplashing so hard he felt dazed. He's not invested in this beyond friends. It would probably be a relief for him if Blaine left.

That last was as uncharitable as Kurt could be, but he couldn't help himself. Blaine was in there, he was out there, and right now, he had never felt like the distance between them was so great. Not when Blaine was out of state for Six Flags performances. Not when Blaine was stuck at his parents' house for weeks entertaining relatives. Not when Blaine was at Dalton and he was at McKinley.

No, it was when a physical distance of less than a thousand feet separated them that made Kurt feel like he was going to scream.

He has to be okay. He has to be.

He better be.

* * *

"You do know what you're doing?"

Blaine smiled grimly. "Sure," he chirped, because cheerfulness seemed like a better alternative to terror.

He lifted his hat-covered hand and gripped the handle.

It burned.

He hissed, wrenching it until the door gave slightly.

"Damn," he coughed, waving the hat to clear the air as smoke flooded in.

"I found the smoke," Brittany announced happily while Mercedes coughed out a, "Brilliant plan, prep boy," from nearby.

Blaine didn't answer. He had committed to this route, and he wasn't going to wait for the situation to get really bad before making his move. He knew the general routine of disaster circumstances: wait too long, something bad happened (Murphy's law), and then you couldn't get out. According to Hollywood, there was also supposed to be a rogue bear that came along to devour your half-alive corpse just when circumstances looked a little brighter, but fortunately Blaine didn't think he would have to worry about that particular end.

Well. Unless McKinley has more surprises that I thought, he mused, setting his shoulder against the door to push it open.

Whatever was blocking it wasn't large, but it was just heavy enough that he couldn't use his hand and arm alone to push it away. Mercedes hovered nearby, her mouth buried in her sleeve as she avoided breathing in the acrid smoke, Brittany doing the same beside her, looking confused. "If thiff a gamb?" she asked, her voice muffled by the cloth.

Blaine forced the door open as far as he could stand before leaping back with a curse that would have made Puck cant an eyebrow. Good thing he's not here, he thought absentmindedly. It wouldn't fit with the good stereotypical charming prep boy image of him he'd formed, hearing him swear, but the heat from the door had practically seared Blaine.

Now or never, Blaine thought and plunged ahead.

* * *

"Why aren't they saying anything?"

Kurt tapped his foot anxiously. He had no answer to Rachel's question, and while his conscience desperately wanted to say that Blaine and Brittany and Mercedes were fine, he had no idea. The fire department was still on their way, and somewhere, his boyfriend and two of his best friends were slowly roasting underneath a fire.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Kurt waited with the rest of them, anxious and desperate and sick for news.

Good news, he amended quickly. Only good news.

At last, his phone vibrated.

Kurt nearly leaped out of his skin in surprise, staring down at the screen a moment later.

OK.

OK? OK what? OK, we're still trapped? OK, we're in trouble? OK, what?

His phone vibrated again.

Where are you?

Football field, Kurt answered, heart beating hard. Finn frowned and edged closer, trying to see his phone, but Kurt's fingers were gripping it so hard he half-worried he would crush it.

Meet us at the gate.

Kurt didn't even bother respond. He just tossed the phone to Finn and ran.

* * *

"You need to buy this man a pony," were the first words out of Mercedes' mouth as she gave Blaine a little nudge forward.

"Or a unicorn," Brittany put in happily, brushing some soot-covered hair over her shoulder.

Blaine shrugged, looking half-embarrassed, half-grateful.

"And you better watch out, because I might steal him," Mercedes added.

"Totally," Brittany agreed.

Kurt barely heard either of them. He simply stared at his boyfriend.

"You okay?" he asked, mouth incredibly dry all of a sudden.

Blaine shrugged a soot-covered shoulder, face almost gray with smoke. "Yeah," he said, coughing a little. "Think so."

And then he sagged limply forward, Kurt's arms wrapping underneath his firmly, supporting him. "Mmm. You smell good," Blaine mumbled inanely against his shoulder.

"You smell like smoke," Kurt replied, almost teasingly. His voice was still too breathless to pull off genuine jocularity, however, overshadowed with seriousness as he trailed his fingertips lightly along Blaine's back, searching for injuries. He felt more than saw Blaine wince when they grazed his left shoulder; he brushed them apologetically against his neck in return.

"Hey, baby girl," Marcus greeted Mercedes, sweeping Mercedes up into a hug as he appeared. Brittany shrugged and casually cuddled up to Kurt.

"You do smell nice," she concurred.

Kurt laughed, light, breathless, and didn't respond.

He couldn't, really. Blaine was okay (mostly, he reminded himself), and that was all that truly mattered.

* * *

School was, as the hopefuls had speculated, canceled for the rest of the day. The fire had spread to encompass several other classrooms before the firefighters arrived on the scene to put it out. Given its nature, they had openly speculated that if it wasn't for Blaine, Mercedes, and Brittany's timely escape, then they might have suffocated from gradual smoke inhalation before anyone could have gotten to them. (Kurt shuddered at the thought.)

However, there was definitely something to be said about the 'new guy's' act. Whether or not people had cared about glee club before, it was suddenly the only thing people could talk about. Most people seemed to know that Blaine had been involved, whether or not they knew Blaine personally, and by six o'clock Kurt had seen dozens of people talking about the fire and how 'some new transfer' had been involved.

Blaine himself was being fairly neutral on the issue as a whole, seeming much more appreciative of a few pints of fresh oxygen and a good burn cream than anything. He didn't bother dissuade Mercedes' statement that he was either the craziest or smartest former Warbler alive. All he did was lean against Kurt's shoulder and listen to the appraisals with half an ear, occasionally wincing when one of the paramedics fussed with his hand or his shoulder. The burns on his face and to his front were mostly minor -- he wouldn't have any lasting damage from those -- but there were some on his legs that looked fairly painful.

"'M fine," Blaine murmured even when one of the EMTs had shimmied his pant leg up to his knee to look at it. He had winced and pulled away, only to eventually submit when it meant some burn cream to again help with the worst of it.

The chem lab was in ruins: exploded vials and charred tables lay everywhere, the remains of dozens of papers scorched. The fire department took care of washing out the place to ensure that the fire had been completely subdued; water damage would, of course, result in further delay of their return to school.

For now, watching his boyfriend snooze on his couch while the rest of the family talked about the incident in hushed voices, Kurt couldn't help offering a silent thank-you to that flying-dwarf-in-a-teapot that had protected his boyfriend from further injury.

Who would have thought that I would be here after worrying about glee club presidential results this morning? Kurt thought, musing, as his attention wandered between his French homework and the bandaged hand dangling off the edge of the couch beside him. He was sitting on the floor, having refused to take up any portion of the couch when Blaine's legs were still healing, and he rather liked this position as it still allowed him to feel close to Blaine without actually touching him. Kurt teased the end of his dangling hand with the eraser of his pencil gently, letting it rest on Blaine's chest and returning to his French doodling when he was done. Blaine let out a murmur and rolled partially onto his side, cradling the hand closer. Kurt's lips quirked upward in a slight smile.

I'm glad you're okay, Kurt thought in his direction, knowing that in Blaine's dream world it didn't make a difference.

"We're getting pizza -- he want any?" Kurt's dad asked, appearing in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen and looking at the two of them briefly before orienting his gaze on Kurt.

Kurt shrugged and reached over with his pencil eraser again, this time to gently prod Blaine's right shoulder. He waited until Blaine grunted acquiescence before asking, "Want pizza?"

A pause. "Mmff," Blaine said.

"Sure," Kurt translated with a shrug. "No preference?"

"Mm-mm."

"Whatever you want," Kurt told his dad, who nodded before retreating into the kitchen.

Kurt watched as Blaine let out a low whine before rolling onto his other side, this time facing Kurt instead of the couch. His face scrunched up as he squinted at the television, left on a local channel for the noise rather than any real entertainment value. "Time'sit?"

"Six twenty," Kurt answered, snapping his binder shut and setting his pencil aside to look at Blaine. "How're you feeling?"

"Wiped out," Blaine grumbled, propping himself up with a laborious effort onto his elbows so that he was leaning against the couch arm. "The hell was in the stuff they gave me?"

"It's called morphine," Kurt chimed. "And yes, it does have a rather soporific effect combined with your additional trauma."

"What's--" Blaine yawned, the next word caught up in it as he mumbled, "soporific?"

"Sleepy," Kurt said.

"Mmm," Blaine agreed, closing his eyes. "Soun's right. Where're Britt 'n' 'Cedes?"

"Most likely spreading the news of your heroic antics." Blaine's eyebrows lifted in sluggish curiosity. "Barging through a chemical fire in the name of saving two damsels-in-distress? I daresay you are straight from a bestselling Shakespearean play, Blaine Anderson."

"Mmm . . . Shakespearean."

Smiling a little, Kurt fluffed the top pillow Blaine was using somewhat before patting it invitingly. Blaine didn't even bother argue as he slid down into a reclining position, snoring softly in seconds.

Barely resisting the urge to brush his hair back or rub his side lightly as he normally would, Kurt scooted over so he could pick up his phone as it buzzed.

And frowned. The number was marked as unlisted on his contacts, which normally meant he would have ignored it. He had no interest in hearing the homophobic spam that some people left him and especially mistrusted numbers that he didn't recognize.

This number, however, belonged to a residence he knew well enough that he was somewhat surprised at himself for not having listed it before.

He hurried to his feet and upstairs, where he wasn't as liable to be interrupted, and hit the call button to accept the call. "Hello?"

A slightly nervous voice. "Kurt?"

"Mrs. Anderson?"

"Hi, Kurt. I know we haven't talked much but--"

"It's fine," Kurt assured, sitting on the edge of his bed absentmindedly.

"We were just wondering if Blaine was staying with you folks tonight," Mrs. Anderson went on. "He hasn't answered any of my calls. . . ."

"Oh," Kurt said softly, remembering what Blaine had said about leaving his phone at home. It was probably sitting up in his room now, in fact, right next to his laptop, untouched. "Well, uh, you didn't happen to hear what happened at McKinley today, did you?"

Mrs. Anderson's voice was suddenly all worried mother. "Oh my God, something happened to him, didn't it? Oh my God--"

"He's okay," Kurt hastened to assure. Smooth, Kurt, very smooth. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Mrs. Anderson when someone had called to tell her that her son had had the 'living crap' beaten out of him by three guys after the Sadie Hawkins dance. It was something that made Kurt sick to his stomach to imagine; not only the thought of Blaine being in pain or hurt, but also the fact that he wouldn't have known the extent of Blaine's injuries until he arrived on the scene.

Mrs. Anderson was practically hyperventilating on the other end of the line, however, so Kurt knew that he didn't have time to muse over what had potentially happened to Blaine that merited such a description. Instead, he explained in as few and as gentle words as possible about the chem lab fire, doing his best to make it sound like it was a complete accident and Blaine had been at the wrong place at the wrong time rather than deliberately lured into danger.

This is wrong, Kurt chastised himself, even as his mouth continued to follow no orders from his emotional side and listened instead to reasonable neutrality. She should know if her son's in serious danger being at McKinley.

Truth be told, Kurt wasn't sure that Blaine wasn't in serious danger by being at McKinley, especially after this latest development. He had once been naÃ¯ve enough to believe that Blaine was invincible, an illusion that had gradually been reconstructed over time. Blaine was strong and resilient and courageous, yes, but he wasn't indestructible, and there were threats that certainly exceeded the capacity of his arsenal to handle. Kurt would have loved to honestly say that Blaine would be absolutely fine being at McKinley, that was a complete fluke, but after coaxing most of the story out of Blaine and the rest out of Mercedes, he knew that a more malicious threat lingered behind it.

This is why we need a PFLAG, he thought, crossing his legs as he talked. We need to be united against this or it's going to tear us all down.

And, honestly, it didn't matter who started the PFLAG: what mattered was who joined and how it was run.

Finn was trying to do a good thing. He was trying to help you.

You need to forgive him.

At last, when Mrs. Anderson's voice had gone silent on the other end, contemplative, elusive, Kurt allowed himself to think of actually forgiving Finn for his past transgressions.

He isn't perfect, his cynical side interjected, but he is trying.

"Well, I know that since Blaine's comfortable being around you folk it sounds like it might be more convenient to just let him stay there for the weekend," Mrs. Anderson said at last, her voice soft and fragile. "You'll take care of him, won't you?"

"Of course," Kurt assured.

"Can I -- can I talk to him?"

Kurt faltered a little. "He's asleep . . ." he hedged, "but I could ask."

Hopping up from his bed, he quickly climbed back down the stairs and shuffled over to the couch. As though sensing he was needed, Blaine stirred and sat up again, not fully awake or upright but still recognizing when Kurt gestured to the phone quizzically. He nodded in a weary sort of way, taking it and saying, "Hi, Mom," in a raw, smoke-burned voice.

"Oh, sweetie. . . ." Kurt heard Mrs. Anderson say on the other end before he excused himself to the kitchen.

"How's he doing?" his dad asked gruffly, lifting his gaze from his hands.

Kurt shrugged. "Okay," he said elusively. "I think he's still mostly out-of-it."

"He probably will be. Poor guy," Carole said sympathetically. "I'm amazed that they were able to get through that."

"Yes, well, I've already told him that he's never allowed to do it again," Kurt said. "I think I have a dozen gray hairs now."

"Trust me, kid, you've got nothing to worry about," his dad said, gesturing to his own bald pate.

Kurt laughed and shook his head, brushing his fingers across his bangs once delicately. "Yes, well, I'll try to avoid that," he put in dryly.

"Order up," Finn said, grinning, as he stepped in through the front door with the pizzas. "I call first dibs, 'cause I picked it up and everything."

"Such a gentleman," Kurt said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as Finn set the boxes down on the table. "Mind if I . . . ?" he gestured towards the living room, even though it was Friday night dinner and those were supposed to be sacred and everything.

Carole just looked at him with soft eyes, his dad giving him a nod and making a mock-shooing gesture while Finn started dishing out his own pizza. Kurt rescued a couple slices on a pair of plates and disappeared with a grateful smile, nicking a pair of water bottles on his way.

Blaine was sitting up against the arm of the couch, toying with the screen of Kurt's phone absentmindedly, looking up belatedly as Kurt re-entered the room. He gave him a slight, goofy smile and accepted the plate with his good hand, setting it on his thigh and picking up the pizza.

"Thanks," he said with a grin, taking a bite.

"I don't think it qualifies as one of the approved foods that you're allowed to eat after moderate smoke inhalation," Kurt said, taking a delicate bite of his own slice as he sat down beside Blaine again.

"Small words, Kurt, small words," Blaine murmured, chewing slowly.

"Here's one: Brittany has officially deemed you her 'number one unicorn' for apparently saving her life."

"I didn't save her life," Blaine mumbled. He took another bite to distract himself from an explanation while Kurt rolled his eyes.

"You just helped her escape from a burning building."

"Mmmhmm"

"That's totally not saving someone's life."

"Nope."

"At all."

"Uh huh. . . ."

Kurt sighed. "It delayed the election of a glee club president, you know."

Blaine scrunched up his face in mock-regret. "Damn. I was looking forward to that."

Kurt smiled and nudged his knee gently. "You swear more when you're on morphine."

"S'the morphine talkin'," Blaine grumbled.

"Mmm. . . ."

Kurt waited for Blaine to speak, unsurprised when he looked up and saw him dozing instead, still partially sitting up with his empty plate on his lap, head tipped forward to his chest. Shaking his head to himself, Kurt gently retrieved the plate from his slack grip and stacked it on top of his own, briefly returning to the kitchen to drop them off in the sink before returning to sit beside Blaine.

"Love you," Blaine murmured sleepily.

Kurt smiled and tugged and prodded lightly until Blaine was lying mostly horizontal again. Blaine wrapped one arm around the pillow so that he was hugging it. Kurt, unable to resist temptation, leaned forward and very lightly brushed his lips against Blaine's forehead.

"I love you, too," he whispered. "That's why you're not allowed to do stupid, crazy, brave things like this, okay?"

"Okay," Blaine agreed, compliant under the influence of sleep and narcotics before drifting off completely.

Kurt just stretched out his legs and rested against the couch. I could never stand to lose you, he added in the comforting privacy of his own thoughts. You can't be noble and brave if it means you get hurt, Blaine.

But Blaine was sleeping, oblivious, and Kurt didn't have the heart to wake him to tell him as much.


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt learned three new things about the Andersons that weekend. Two were relatively positive, one not-so-much.

The first: Mrs. Anderson was understanding. She didn't press him for answers, even though it was her son that had been in danger (news apparently took a while to circulate from Lima to Westerville. Kurt was finding this rather difficult to believe given the widespread area that it had encompassed in Lima already, but he didn't feel it was really his place to argue).

The second: No one came storming down upon the Hudson-Hummel home insisting that Blaine transfer back to Dalton. In fact, Blaine himself was rather adamant that the fire 'changed nothing.' He was staying at McKinley, regardless of the consequences, and if someone thought he was in danger than they could take a look at Mercedes' boyfriend and reconsider how much 'danger' Blaine was in with a humanized mammoth for a companion.

However, Kurt realized as he sat sipping a cup of coffee at the breakfast table reading an older issue of Vogue, there was also something strange about the whole ordeal.

Shouldn't Blaine's parents have been raining down on them by now, insisting on taking their son back to Westerville? He was their only child, and only-child parents tended to be protective of their kid, as far as Kurt's knowledge extended. Given Blaine's unfortunate history at the Sadie Hawkins dance, he thought it all the more likely that his parents would want to pull him out of a threatening situation as soon as possible.

But you didn't exactly make it sound that dangerous, Kurt's conscience reminded pointedly.

He rolled his eyes and flipped the page of his issue. They know the story. They can make a parental decision if they want to.

The papers, however, were elusive and vague about the specifics. The only known factors were that most of the McKinley staff had been under the impression that the fire had been a result of a student messing around with chemical ingredients until the firemen had found traces of arson on several of the desks. That had been almost three hours after they arrived on the scene, given the task of making sure the area was safe and decontaminated before sending in a team to check what the chemical composition of the flames were.

The results all pointed at the same conclusion: it was a deliberate fire. The news had admittedly shaken Kurt up; Blaine had only muttered about someone shoving him into the basement with Mercedes before the door was barred and the smoke started drifting in. Blaine had actually thought that the alarm still might have been false at that point, texting Kurt using Brittany's phone to ask once he heard the distant shrieks of the alarms. The fire had, of course, been real and lethal, and Blaine's actions were commended by authority and student body alike as incredibly risky. There had been every possibility that he could have walked straight into a flame and been chemically burned, an unpleasant end to contemplate on any day.

Instead, he had played the fool's lottery and won: venturing blindly into disaster. The worst thing that had happened was when he sidestepped a little too close to the flames and got his legs singed. Mercedes and Brittany had followed him just as blindly, but he had forged the path. According to his disjointed account, Blaine had had to move several charred desks out of the way (a process which, he explained, took the majority of the time) and a couple of chairs. He had accidentally grabbed the outer door handle and been burned again for his efforts before remembering to use Brittany's furry hat to yank it open.

According to the fire department's estimates using the first and last texts Blaine sent regarding the issue, it had only taken eight and a half minutes to escape. Those were probably the longest eight and a half minutes of Kurt's life.

Stirring his coffee with the straight end of his spoon, Kurt frowned at the ghastly teal outfit on the next page before flipping quickly to the next. Even high fashion flopped sometimes; clearly that particular designer needed to be ousted from the business.

You're avoiding the issue, Kurt's conscience piped in helpfully.

Kurt rested his chin in his hand and scowled. If he was being honest with himself, then he wanted to put the entire issue behind him. He wanted to forget that he had ever woken up that Friday grousing about glee club elections and spent the rest of the morning wondering if he would even have a boyfriend to speak of by the end of it. The surreal nature of the day still baffled him; how could things have gone from so normal to so extreme so quickly? Wasn't there supposed to be some helpful 'three warning signs' beforehand?

But no, there weren't, and now all Kurt could do was sit back and breathe a deep sigh of relief that Blaine was alive. He had been both amazed and angry when he learned just why it took so long for anyone to call the fire department: apparently, most of the teachers had assumed that the glee club was fully accounted for when they saw their teacher arguing with the cheerleading coach. It wasn't until Finn forged his way through to Principal Figgins that anyone began to realize the enormity of the situation, and by then, most people were already anxious to be let out of school early, whether or not three glee clubbers were trapped underneath a burning chem lab or not.

Kurt shuddered to himself as he thought of it. The school's organization was terrible, and it had almost cost two of his closest friends their lives. Not to mention his boyfriend's. Kurt honestly might have just snapped if that happened. He couldn't imagine what he would have done if they had died because the staff had neglected their duties.

We need organization, Kurt thought firmly, then shook his head slightly to himself. Only a day ago he had been telling Rachel that organization was not the problem, some idiot pulling the fire alarm was.

That idiot was probably the one who set the fire off, Kurt thought. Unfortunately, the perpetrator had covered his (or her, Kurt allowed, although he suspected that it was a he; a girl wouldn't have been able to drag the table or shove Blaine in the basement so easily) tracks well. There were too many footprints on the floors to judge which ones were most likely the suspect's, and the alarm itself had been charred so badly by the fire it was next to impossible to get DNA samples. The ones that had been scraped off were of a synthetic material: a glove or a towel, maybe. Nothing useful.

Investigations were pending, but this wasn't going to be the quick wrap-up that Kurt could have hoped for when the fire deputies first arrived on the scene. There would have to be more tests and more searches and more narrowing of potential candidates.

Meanwhile, the arsonist would run free.

Feeling sick, Kurt let his coffee sit on the table as he stared blankly at a red satin dress on the page. He didn't want to think about that aspect of it: that it wasn't over. That someone had deliberately targeted Blaine (Brittany and Mercedes were likely collateral damage) and nearly succeeded in killing him. Kurt wanted to believe that Blaine was safe now that the fire was out and he wasn't trapped underneath a chem lab, but it was hard to convince himself that when he knew that the culprit was still free.

It only amazed Kurt more that Blaine's parents had been so understanding, so willing to let him stay with the Hudson-Hummels, knowing that the incident was still listed as 'under investigation' in the papers. Kurt had already read about five different versions of the events, noticing that each listed the 'recent transfer, Blaine Anderson' as the general hero of the tale. Blaine's parents, however, seemed indifferent to the event on a whole; aside from the phone call, Kurt hadn't had word from either of them.

They should want to know what's going on. They shouldn't be this understanding. What's wrong with them? Their son was nearly burned alive, and they haven't even told him that he has to come home.

Yes, something was very, very strange about the Andersons, and Kurt wasn't sure he liked it. At all.

"I smell pancakes."

Finn's public service announcement was largely ignored as he stepped into the kitchen, lead more by instinct towards the stove than actual awareness. Kurt, wanting something to do with his hands, had made enough breakfast to satisfy ten people, which would keep Finn satisfied until about noon before he complained that he was 'starving' again. Kurt didn't know if he honestly was just hungry all the time or enjoyed food that much; either way, he was still as lean as ever, never putting on more than a couple pounds at any time.

Piling six of the eight pancakes Kurt had prepared onto one plate, Finn sank down into one of the chairs and happily devoured the first one in four bites.

"Finn, I do not want to see you digesting your food," Kurt said loudly, still looking down at his Vogue magazine as Finn opened his mouth to shovel down another pancake.

"Sorry," Finn muttered thickly before swallowing.

Kurt sighed and shook his head. "I should go check on Blaine, anyway," he said, shutting his magazine and picking it and his coffee up with him.

Blaine was exactly where he had left him, reclining on the couch with a misty-eyed expression on his face. It cleared a little as Kurt entered the room, brightening to its usual satisfaction as he smiled. His face was still a little gray from the smoke. "Morning," he said, his voice slightly thinner than usual. Sore throat, Kurt deduced, taking his usual seat in front of the couch. "Anything good?"

Kurt shrugged a shoulder half-heartedly. "Somewhat. It's an older issue."

Blaine smiled a little. "Finn?"

"Devouring pancakes whole," Kurt said, shaking his head. "I think I'm scarred for life. Remind me never to be nice to him again."

"Mmm. 'Kay." With only a slight wince, Blaine propped himself up until he was actually sitting upright, draping his legs carefully over the edge of the couch. Kurt winced slightly at the sight of the burns, involuntarily averting his gaze. Blaine didn't seem bothered, probably anticipating the reaction. Kurt felt a little guilty -- he wasn't even the one burned and he couldn't stand to look at it -- but Blaine shifted until he was standing and walked carefully towards the bathroom.

Kurt watched him disappear around the corner before returning his attention to his phone as it vibrated.

Did you buy him a pony yet?

Smiling slightly, Kurt typed back, Not yet. I'm still torn between a chestnut or palomino.

I'd go palomino, Mercedes suggested. Chestnut's overrated.

Kurt held it together for three seconds before he couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Of all things, he was most happy that Brittany, Mercedes, and Blaine were okay. Brittany and Mercedes were even miraculously unscathed (no doubt Blaine's decision to go first had an impact on that) aside from minimal side effects from moderate smoke inhalation. Mercedes had insisted that Kurt owed Blaine every magical creature under the sea for being 'too noble for his own good,' which Kurt was more than happy to joke around with.

Still there, white boy?

Still here, Kurt assured, looking up as Blaine walked back into the room, carrying a plate of pancakes and giving Kurt a wounded look.

You didn't offer?

Kurt rolled his eyes slightly. You didn't ask.

A pause. Then his phone vibrated. Go make out with your boyfriend, Mercedes wrote.

Kurt choked. Blaine gave him a concerned look, which was impressive, considering one cheek bulged with pancake. You okay?

Waving a hand half-frantically and typing back, Mercedes! with what he hoped was enough indignation to put her off, Kurt rolled his eyes to avoid blushing.

He could almost hear her laugh when she responded. Have fun, white boy. At least give him a hug from me. He seriously deserves it.

Shaking his head to himself and ignoring Blaine as he tilted his head to one side curiously, Kurt replied, I'll let him know. And I'm glad you're safe, too, you know.

I know. But your beau deserves all the credit for this one.

My beau, Kurt thought as he turned to look at said-beau. Blaine was watching him with an expression of mingled curiosity and resignation.

You're not going to tell me?

"Mercedes," was all Kurt said.

Blaine hummed in understanding. "She okay?" he asked after swallowing another bite of pancake.

"She's fine," Kurt assured, "and she still thinks I owe you a pony."

Blaine chewed his pancake slowly, looking thoughtful. "I could work with that," he said at last.

Kurt rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Of course you could."

* * *

"I can't believe I know you personally," Rachel bubbled the instant Kurt left to grab their coffees. "This is perfect. Not only do I have on-scene relations to the incident, but I know you."

Blaine blinked, shrugging a little. "Glad to be of assistance," he said, doing his best not to speak. Whenever Finn's girlfriend came over he wasn't quite sure what he should and should not say, which was usually no problem, since Rachel had enough to say to rewrite the Encyclopedia Britannica. Contributing to the conversation wasn't a prerequisite of making Rachel Berry happy; in fact, the less Blaine talked, the happier she seemed, taking the silences as excuses to keep talking.

"I can write all about this in my biography from an on-scene perspective. That is novel gold. This could be the single most exciting non-music related event of my high school career."

"That's, um, good," Blaine said. Don't encourage anything, he reminded himself, remembering what Kurt had said about Rachel and encouragement.

"Chapter four would be the ideal placement for it, since it's early in the novel but not too early. I could incorporate your heroics in as well," she assured with a nonchalant air. He blushed a little. He knew that everyone was talking about his 'heroics,' but honestly, he just hadn't wanted to end up as a human torch. The unintended notoriety was exactly that: unintentional. Even the patrons in the Lima Bean were giving him sideways looks, seemingly unable to help checking again to see if it really was the Blaine Anderson. Blaine, on the other hand, kept simultaneously checking his sweats to see if they covered his ankles. The burns there did merit at least some staring.

". . . but I don't want to enter the trauma too early," Rachel sighed as Kurt reappeared with his and Blaine's coffees in hand. Blaine grinned gratefully and accepted his with his 'good' left hand. The right had a bandage along it that was still extremely tender; the left was relatively unharmed, only used to push aside the tables.

"Rachel, as fascinating as your future bestseller will undoubtedly be, don't you think you should preserve its secrets else someone else decide to write it first?" Kurt asked dryly.

Rachel's hands clenched around her coffee cup so tightly Blaine actually braced himself for a spray of coffee before she shook her head and released it. "You're absolutely right," she said in that same dazed voice Blaine had come to associate with 'I can't believe you figured something out before I did.'

Kurt smirked in satisfaction. He seemed to be the only person who could effectively bring down Rachel's 'queen of the universe' high, and while Blaine knew he shouldn't be grateful for it, he was glad that someone still had the metaphorical ego-popping pin.

"And I agree that we need more organization in glee club," Kurt said suddenly.

Both Rachel and Blaine gaped. More accurately: Rachel gaped, Blaine half-choked on his coffee and then gaped.

"You're kidding," he practically wheezed while Rachel said in a very self-satisfied tone, "Thank you, Kurt."

"Are you serious?" Blaine asked, still a little breathless from half-choking.

"I'm glad someone else has finally seen reason in this club," Rachel continued, oblivious to his reaction. "We need someone in charge--"

"I didn't say anything about anyone in charge," Kurt broke in calmly.

Again, Blaine's and Rachel's reactions were identical with one minor adjustment: Blaine simply looked thunderstruck, while storm clouds were quickly occluding Rachel's cheerful demeanor.

"You can't expect to keep everything organized without a president," she began stiffly.

"So you don't support a president?" Blaine chipped in, confused.

"We need someone besides Mr. Schuester who can keep track of our setlists and routines," Rachel went on.

"I'm confused," Blaine added eloquently.

Kurt shook his head at both of them, nursing his coffee in one hand. "We don't need a president, but we do need organization. Did neither of you notice how no oneseemed concerned that three students were missing when the fire started?"

Well, in accordance with the general standards at McKinley, that didn't exactly exceed my expectations, Blaine's cynical side remarked absentmindedly.

Blaine inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. There are plenty of reasons not to have noticed three missing students.

"And these weren't just any students," Kurt continued, ignoring Rachel's stormy gaze. "These were our friends. We should have been keeping track of everyone. We're supposed to be a team. How can we be a team if we can't even keep track of a third of our members?"

"This is why we need a president," Rachel insisted. "Someone who can--"

"No. We don't need a president. But we do need unity. Mr. Schue's right." Kurt shrugged a shoulder. "If we're going to make it to competitions this year -- if we're going to make it this year -- then we need to be better organized. We have to look out for each other. And if someone's missing, or in trouble, or whatever, we need to do something about it."

A long pause. At last, Blaine cleared his throat a little and prompted, "I think that's reasonable."

Rachel sniffed. "You're trying to thwart my presidency already," she said.

Kurt closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and staring at Rachel seriously. "People's lives are more important than transcripts, Rachel," he said quietly. "This isn't about you anymore. This is about everyone. What if it had been Artie in there? Or just Brittany? Or Puck, or Finn, or anyone? We need to stick together, and a president would only create this false sense of superiority."

Rachel looked slightly pained as she considered the names he threw out, seeming reluctant to answer. At last, she conceded with a long sigh. "I suppose we can postpone the election."

Kurt inclined his head a little. "For now, thank you."

Well, at least we don't need to convince Puck to vote for Brittany anymore, Blaine mused.

* * *

"You're an okay guy, Anderson. Saving somebody's else's girl is pretty noble. Saving my girl is downright saint-like."

Blaine grinned slightly, grateful to be relieved from listening to Rachel chatter on. Kurt had told him that Mercedes and Marcus were at the food court and wanted to meet up with them. Bravely agreeing to fend off Rachel until Finn arrived from Burt's shop, Kurt would come around once Finn appeared. For the moment, sitting across from Mercedes' boyfriend in a booth, Blaine was glad that he had accepted to leave early.

"You can be saint-like all you want as long as you don't touch my tots," Mercedes said warningly, sliding in beside Marcus and smiling up at him. "That includes you, babe."

Marcus made a disgruntled noise before saying nonchalantly, "I'll just mooch off the saint."

Blaine lifted an arm in mock indignation to defend his basket of churros which Mercedes had insisted on buying since she 'owed him' for saving her life. Blaine had rolled his eyes and tried to tell her that he didn't want to put a price on it, but she had insisted and despite the general low-class of the rest of Lima food, the churros were surprisingly good.

"Do I get free churros if I save you from a burning building?" Marcus asked, genuine consideration in his voice.

Mercedes punched him in the shoulder. "No, but I will cut you if you try to save anyone from a burning building. Only one glee guy per year can put himself in mortal danger to save someone else."

"But I'm only half a glee guy," Marcus protested. "I'm like . . . a mascot or something. How's that even count?"

"Because I said so," Mercedes said sweetly.

Shaking his head at the general banter, Blaine yelped when Marcus reached over and casually liberated him of two of his churros. "Gotta have faster reflexes than that, Saint Anderson."

"Be nice to him," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes and taking back one of the churros and setting it back on the basket. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here, and if I wasn't here, then there wouldn't be any churros to speak of right now."

Marcus squinted at Blaine for several moments before shaking his head and depositing the churro back on the otherwise untouched pile. "You got off lucky this time, Andy," he said in a tone of mock-disappointment.

"His name's Blaine," Mercedes reminded.

"Yeah, but now that he's Saint Anderson it's easier to just say 'Andy' rather than 'Anderson' all the time. Agreed?"

Blaine shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."

"See, even the saint agrees," Marcus said as though nothing could possibly refute his argument. "But seriously, Blaine, you ever need anything, you got it. We're here for you."

"Absolutely," Mercedes agreed.

"And we don't let anyone mess with our saint," Marcus finished in a tone of great satisfaction. "'Specially that guy with all the slushies. Though it's nice of him to have such a giving heart. I swear, I don't even need to pack my own drinks anymore. He's better than clockwork."

Blaine hid a smile as he picked up a churro, nearly jumping out a his skin when someone nudged his mostly unharmed shoulder lightly. "At last, the Berry has left the building," Kurt said with a deep sigh, sinking into the booth.

"Who's Berry?" Marcus asked, mouth full of a churro he had slipped away while Kurt scooted into the booth, Mercedes and Blaine both distracted by his arrival.

"Rachel. The most obsessive person I have ever met."

"Mm. She the one that talks a lot? Short, brown hair, big eyes?"

"That's her," Kurt agreed.

Marcus grunted. "She mistook me for a mountain gorilla my first day."

"She mistakes everyone for some form of animal at one point or another," Kurt assured. "Although Brittany already took care of mine."

"What're you?" Blaine asked, curious.

Kurt flushed a little and picked at a churro distractedly, clearly embarrassed. Blaine, unable to resist the opportunity, waited patiently. At last, Kurt muttered, "You know. . . ."

"I do . . . ?"

Scowling at his plate, Kurt said very quickly, "Dolphin," and bit into the churro before Blaine could say anything.

Marcus grinned. "Dolphin?" he repeated.

Kurt's face flushed redder. "It's just her -- made-up way of referring to -- you know."

"Gay people," Blaine elaborated, smiling slightly at Kurt. "And I don't think it's that bad. Kind of cute, actually."

"Say one more word on the subject and I will denounce you for life," Kurt said seriously.

"Oh, look, they've finally installed a new slushy machine here."

"That's been here for weeks," Marcus pointed out.

"I'm subtly changing the topic," Blaine stage-whispered, while Mercedes just laughed.

Kurt scowled at them all, still blushing scarlet.

* * *

Blaine stood in the fresh midnight air and breathed in the calmness, imagining what it would be like if the world lived at midnight. Everything was so subdued, so muted: shades of blue and purple and violet dominated a landscape opaque and oblique. He wanted to reach out and capture the night itself in his palm, tuck it away for those moments during the day when everything else felt too chaotic and he needed a moment of peace. Right now, the outdoors was soothing in a way that even Kurt's house couldn't be. All he could taste in his throat was the acrid stench of smoke, a distinct thread of the flame itself seeming to be lodged there.

The memories were too recent for him to have forgotten what the days were like when he was finally released from the hospital after the Sadie Hawkins dance incident. He had used anger as a shield and frustration as a lance, spearing anyone who dared stepped within his gaping, vulnerable pit of emotions. He didn't want anyone venturing there -- there was too much for him alone to comprehend, but he didn't want anyone else seeing that sacred, weak part of him as well -- and had fended off prying questions and eyes with as much coldness as he could.

Now, however, coldness wasn't an option. The people he was associating with weren't nameless doctors and nurses who brought morphine and pity in equal proportions. They weren't newspaper reporters hounding the door waiting for his statement about the incident. They weren't dog-eyed investigators, baleful, solemn gazes unfazed even as he related the tortured incident.

They were people like Kurt, and his family, and Mercedes and Rachel and everyone else he'd come to know in Lima. He couldn't shunt them aside so easily, but at moments like this, he wished that one of them had been around so he could. His emotions felt tight, wound, twisted in a knot in the wrong direction. He had to reverse the chiropractic nightmare before he could possibly reconsider entering the house.

So he walked.

Barefoot, with only his sweats and hoodie for protection, he padded silently down the sidewalk, letting the night solicit him. It was soothing, in its own way, to be away from civilization for a while, even if it was only in the sense of his mental isolation. Everyone was still present -- there were still quiet homes around him, lights out and inhabitants similarly asleep. He had just ventured outside the usual realm of life and stepped into his own place, where he could, at last, be alone with his thoughts.

The cement under his bare feet was vaguely sharp, but that didn't stop him from walking to the end of the block. His sense of direction was passable at best, but that didn't stop him from turning the first corner, and the next, and the next.

His neck was prickling with suspicion, but that didn't stop him from turning around and walking back.

It should have.

* * *

Blaine awoke with a start, nearly jerking upright as his left side gave a painful throb where the burns were. He had known that something like this would happen -- the Sadie Hawkins dance had permanently branded the memory in his mind -- but it didn't make it any easier to convince his mind that he wasn't in danger. You're at Kurt's place, he told himself fiercely. Not a basement, not the parking lot . . . Kurt's place.

Still, as images from both the chemistry lab and Sadie Hawkins night drifted eerily through his mind, Blaine couldn't shake the suffocating feeling of helplessness he felt. Am I doomed to repeat it? he wondered, tasting bile. Is this what will happen again if I stay at a public school?

But no, this had nothing to do with public school. Had it not been for Dalton's 'zero tolerance policy,' then he could have faced the same prejudices there (still unlikely, given the pedigree of students that generally entered). In the real world, he would certainly face the same assumptions, the same jeers. The same threats, too.

Climbing laboriously to feet that didn't want to cooperate, Blaine dropped the blanket onto the couch and walked slowly up the staircase. His legs protested with every slight bending of the knee, the barely healed burns still unpleasantly painful at times. With a resolution born from a desperation to avoid being left alone in the dark below again, Blaine managed to reach the top hallway.

He blinked stupidly at the sliver of light underneath Kurt's bedroom door, staggering over there almost reflexively, and gently tapped the doorjamb.

There was an almost audible pause from within before he heard the bed shifting. At last, Kurt appeared, holding the door open with a curious expression. "You're still awake?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Blaine shrugged once and wrapped his arm around his left side involuntarily. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No, it's okay," Kurt assured, gently grabbing his arm and guiding him inside, shutting the door behind him. He's not supposed to do that, Blaine thought even as he crawled gratefully to the empty side of the mess of papers Kurt had out on his bed.

"What're these for?" he asked, fingering one of the papers with his bandaged hand.

Kurt shrugged and gathered them together in one pile, setting it down on his vanity. "PFLAG," he said simply.

Blaine hummed. "You don't have to do it alone," he muttered. He was oddly grateful that Kurt had shut the door and left his light on, even though both had nothing to do with him. It felt safe, protected, outside of the influences of the world beyond. Blaine relaxed without conscious thought, only grimacing when one of his legs brushed against a piece of paper. Kurt picked it up a moment later. "Sorry," he repeated quietly.

"You're fine," Kurt assured. "Although," he added, gently opening the door a smidgen as he turned off the lights, "you're kind of breaking the whole 'don't sleep in the same bed' rule."

Blaine would have said 'Sorry' a third time, but Kurt had already slid into the warm space nearby, comfortable and warm. "Are you okay?" Kurt asked seriously, after an uncountable period of time had passed in silence. "You're being very quiet."

"I'm sleeping," Blaine replied, unable to help himself.

He could almost see Kurt roll his eyes. "Of course you are," he said. Then, with a grin that was almost visible: "Which means that I'm allowed to do this, since you're 'sleeping' anyway."

Scooting a little closer, Kurt draped an arm casually over Blaine's waist, silently inviting him closer. Blaine didn't respond aloud; he simply dropped his head forward and let it rest against Kurt's collarbone, the warm, solid, comforting presence of his boyfriend enough to chase the residual aches away.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Blaine could actually feel the vibrations in Kurt's chest as he replied softly, "You're welcome."


	12. Chapter 12

Kurt was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was a bad person.

On the one hand, he was a good person for avoiding stressing out Blaine's mother with all the horrible details of the incident. By subtly refraining from side notes that it was a chemical fire and could have seriously or even fatally wounded her son seemed like something that she should have deduced using her own brain power. It didn't take an intelligent human being to know that a person's likelihood of survival beneath a chemical fire in a locked room were slim without additional aid. Surely Mrs. Anderson should have been clamoring for details, but instead, the phone was silent, his line completely untapped.

He had half-enjoyed the silence, knowing that it meant Blaine could stay with him instead. Somehow, even the peaceful nature of Blaine's home seemed too quiet for him right now; he was always such an outgoing person. Situating him in a place that was generally empty or barely inhabited didn't seem like the best way to ensure that he recovered, true, but Kurt was uneasily surprised at how lackadaisical his parents seemed about the arrangement.

They know he's in good hands, his irrational, emotional-based side assured. They would insist he come home if they thought he would be better off there.

Even that statement did little to put Kurt's nerves at ease. If anything, it further ignited his worries that he had been wrong to exclude every detail, to downplay the incident in any way. Your son nearly died and all you can do is say that he's allowed to stay at his boyfriend's house for a few days?

A pause, then, thoughtfully: I wonder if they even know I'm his boyfriend.

The thought hadn't occurred to Kurt before -- he supposed that it was an assumption as natural as breathing that Blaine would tell any and all of his friends about his relationship, including his parents -- but for some strange reason Kurt had the niggling feeling that Blaine hadn't mentioned that aspect of their relationship to his parents. Their actions were admittedly platonic in front of them: for all Mrs. or Mr. Anderson were concerned, they were just good friends.

Why wouldn't he tell his parents, though?

Kurt immediately dismissed the suspicion that Blaine was ashamed in any way. Blaine loved being able to say that he was 'Kurt Hummel's boyfriend,' and he made no secret of the fact that he was gay or taken, regardless of his company. Whether they were homophobes like Azimio or friends like Mercedes, Blaine was fearless with his beliefs.

So his parents should know, then, Kurt's conscience pointed out logically.

It just didn't sit right, though. If they knew, wouldn't they think it a little strange that their son was staying with his boyfriend for so long? Usually they permitted overnights, but not consecutive overnights, let alone an entire weekend.

Something's not right here, Kurt thought.

Had he done something wrong, or was there something wrong with Blaine's parents? Surely any concerned adult would be wondering about the safety of their charge, especially a parent wanting to know the fate of his or her child. Despite the logical conclusions, however, Kurt had heard nothing more from the Anderson residence. Blaine hadn't brought it up, either, seeming to unconsciously assume that they wouldn't call and therefore he needn't worry himself with them.

Stop it. You're jumping to conclusions.

Slowly rolling himself over so that he was facing Blaine, Kurt watched as he shifted a little, still asleep, curled partially up against Kurt's side. It would have been downright cruel to wake Blaine up now, but part of Kurt's viciously remorseless conscience was saying that he needed to find out what was going on here before he forgot about the issue and simply let it slide.

Something's not right here. Something's wrong.

Whether it was him or Blaine's parents, Kurt didn't know.

* * *

Kurt watched for some sign that Blaine would call his parents all morning.

Sunday mornings were traditionally quiet at the Hudson-Hummel residence with only Carole emerging before noon (besides Kurt, of course, who always woke up before eight) for church at nine. Blaine and Kurt spent most of the morning whiling away the time playing cards at the table, Kurt casually tossing in considerations about the future, trying to lead the conversation to Blaine's parents without outright saying it.

But Blaine eluded him, his good hand maneuvering the cards expertly enough that he distracted Kurt from most of the conversation, intent on winning the game. By the time Kurt realized he had lost three of the past four rounds, he upped his game and focused on that for a while, noticing the way Blaine grinned, eager to accept the challenge.

Or perhaps change the subject? Kurt's conscience piped in.

Kurt mentally rolled his eyes.

After the eleventh round or so, Kurt managed to persuade Blaine to look at the latest news article about him, noticing the way he wrinkled his noise in a fond, exasperated way. I can't believe they're writing this stuff about me, was plain in his expression, even as his bandaged hand explored the edges of the paper thoughtfully, almost tracing the words.

On the cusp of asking how Blaine's parents had reacted, Kurt had been sufficiently distracted when Finn shambled into the kitchen demanding breakfast. Kurt had tried to subtly deter him ("I'll make it later") but Blaine seemed all in favor of it and even helped pull out some of the ingredients for French toast. Kurt, without any other options but to concede or be angry at both of them, simply shook his head and accepted the pan, setting it on the stove and focusing on that for a while, too.

Before Kurt knew it, two hours had passed since he first persuaded Blaine to break open a set of cards with him. He had come no closer to discussing Blaine's parents than he had to discovering the key to alchemy, but he wasn't deterred. Finn's presence at the kitchen table rather ruined his efforts to ask Blaine about his parents, since it was too personal a topic to mention in front of his stepbrother.

Finn, a notoriously wolfish eater, mulled slowly over his breakfast today, seeming to savor the tastes for once rather than shovel the concoctions down whole. Kurt barely resisted the urge to yell at him that now was not the time to develop good eating habits. He would much have preferred it if Finn had just scarfed down his food and left to play mindless video games for the rest of the morning, but unfortunately, fate and Finn were not feeling obliging.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, taking note of his irritated expression as he stared at Finn, waiting for him to finish.

Kurt shook his head slightly, trying to silently signal that he didn't want to say it in front of Finn, but he must have looked more foreboding than he originally thought because instead of understanding Blaine only looked confused and a little hurt. He settled back in his chair with a slightly wounded expression, silently toying with his fork until at last Finn rose with his empty one and deposited it in the sink.

"Finally," Kurt couldn't help breathe.

"What's wrong?" Blaine repeated, sounding uncertain.

"It's--" Kurt had wanted to say it eloquently, creatively, so that he didn't upset Blaine or anything but suddenly the words burst out of him. "Why haven't your parents said anything about the fact that you were nearly killed on Friday?"

For a moment, Kurt thought Blaine wouldn't respond at all: he simply turned his fork slowly between his fingers, considering. At last, he shrugged, wincing a little as it tugged on his bad shoulder. "It wasn't that bad, Kurt," he said.

Kurt snorted. Which was so uncouth that he would have been mortified for life if he wasn't so surprised. "Need I remind you that you almost died?"

"But I didn't," Blaine reminded. "I'm fine, aren't I?"

Kurt looked pointedly at his bandaged hand. Reflexively, Blaine withdrew it so that it was resting in his lap instead.

Why is he so defensive about this? Kurt wondered, because he could almost see the window shutters at half-mast in Blaine's eyes. He was definitely wary, even if his posture and general demeanor hadn't changed. There was something about him that seemed . . . uncertain, concerned.

He's upset, Kurt realized with a slight shock.

Blaine wore his heart on his sleeve, which usually meant that he was about as capable of hiding his emotions as Rachel was of hiding her ambitions about being a star. He couldn't help it that when he was excited or happy or sad it showed. There was, however, a way to ensure that his feelings were left somewhat hidden, and Kurt had only seen it once before when speaking with him: when Blaine was describing the incident at the Sadie Hawkins dance. His eyes just sort of . . . darkened, and his face lost that same ever-present energy it always had, and his entire demeanor seemed to shift, retreating.

Something is definitely wrong here, Kurt decided, because there was no way simply mentioning Blaine's parents should trigger this sort of a reaction.

"Blaine?" he asked, because now the shutters were at three-quarters and he didn't want Blaine to completely shut himself off from the conversation.

Blaine sighed. It was a long, low noise that spoke of more frustration than Kurt cared to recall, more ill feelings than he wanted to hear recited. "My parents both came from large families," he began, then paused. He lifted his right hand back onto the table and picked lightly at the edges, seemingly needing something to do. Kurt gently put his own hand overtop his fingers to stop him. "Because they had so many siblings, they didn't think it was necessary to 'babysit' one another." He shrugged again, wincing once more as it tugged on his shoulder. "This is just naturally how they handle crises: let it pass over unless it's too big to ignore."

"This is pretty big, Blaine," Kurt said softly.

Blaine looked slightly uncomfortable. "I know. But . . . well, I can handle it myself. I'm eighteen, Kurt. It's not like I need someone to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay just because of a . . . fluke incident like this."

"They're still your parents," Kurt insisted. "Carole and my dad would never stand aside and let something like this be completely ignored just because I was eighteen and legally an adult."

Blaine scuffed his fingertips together, reminding Kurt invariably of Finn. "Well, my parents aren't exactly yours, are they?"

Silence. Kurt stared at him, waiting, while Blaine continued to chafe at his nails gently. At last he stopped, laying his fingers flat on the table, and looked at Kurt.

"They don't handle crises well," he said. "They don't know what to do when their only son turns out to be gay or when he gets beaten up or when he decides to attend a public school again instead of staying in private school." Kurt flinched, knowing that he was partially responsible for that last, but Blaine plowed on before he could speak. "They don't know what to do about any of those. So for them, this is the easiest method of coping. I'm not even that hurt, Kurt--"

"Do not downplay this," Kurt said suddenly. "You were almost killed, Blaine, and someone deliberately set that fire."

"The investigators will figure it out," Blaine said. "The faculty are already working on cleaning up the mess. The burns are healing on their own just fine. My parents don'tneed to be involved in this, because there isn't a role for them."

"They're your parents," Kurt reminded since Blaine seemed to have lost sight of the enormity of what he was saying. His parents don't care that he was hurt as long as they don't have to worry about cleaning up the damage. As long as he's still alive, they're happy living their own lives.

In short, it made him feel rather sick.

Blaine, too, looked distinctly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Can we . . . not talk about this?" he asked, in a last ditch effort to avoid the topic.

Kurt was almost swayed then, but he steeled himself and shook his head. "They can't ignore this just because it upsets them," he said firmly.

"Why not?" Blaine asked, his voice quiet and resigned. "Because they'll regret it later and won't have the opportunity to apologize for it? Kurt, they don't have a concept of time. As long as I'm fine today, then I'm fine for eternity in their minds."

Kurt stared at him, wordless, disbelieving.

"When I'm happy and healthy, I'm just a normal son to them," he continued hollowly. "We talk and do things together and they're good people. But whenever things don't turn out how they expect, or something crops up that they can't take care of right away. . . ." He shook his head. "They prefer to ignore it until it resolves on its own."

"So this is just going to resolve itself? The burns will disappear and you'll go back to being their 'normal son'?" Kurt couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice; his throat felt choked with it, anger and indignation on Blaine's behalf welling in him.

I can't believe them. They'll pretend this doesn't exist just so they don't have to deal with any of the consequences.

Then, laughing silently to himself: Their son practically walked through fire to save two other people, and they can't even risk being concerned about him.

"Morning, boys," Kurt's dad greeted, his voice so sudden and different that Kurt almost jumped in his chair. Blaine's expression turned to one of relief as he gave Kurt one last apologetic glance, pushing back his own and standing.

"Morning, Burt," he said, hobbling a little stiffly out of the room, disappearing around the corner.

"What's up with him?" his dad asked, picking up a few slices of French toast for himself. "Kurt?"

They don't even care. He could have lost a limb and they would have just left him. He could be in a coma and they would just pay the medical bills.

They don't care about him.

Kurt just shook his head. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, not when Blaine was still in the adjacent room with his hearing intact.

We will fix this, Blaine. Somehow.

* * *

Kurt had never imagined driving up to the Anderson residence alone. He had mostly assumed that this was because it had always struck him as one of those places you never went unless you had a specific purpose, such as a cemetery or a hospital. Smiling grimly at the analogy, Kurt parked his Navigator just outside the lot and hopped out of the driver's seat.

He should have called first, but he hadn't felt like giving them the opportunity to flee from this. He should also have told Blaine where he was going, but he had known that Blaine would have protested. Fortunately, a Blaine that was still taking pain medication for his burns was a rather nap-prone Blaine, and during one such nap Kurt had left a note saying he was out doing some bargain-hunting and would be back in a couple hours.

Of course, Kurt had no intention of finding fabulous clothes, even though in his heart-of-hearts he would have preferred that to his current task. Stepping up to the door, he pressed the doorbell and almost saw the way both Andersons exchanged looks before Mr. Anderson appeared in the doorway.

"Oh," he said in a voice that resembled someone regarding an unexpected -- and unpleasant -- reunion with a particularly noxious disease. "Hello."

Apparently manners trumped disgust because Mr. Anderson even offered his hand for a shake and introduced himself as Brian Anderson before stepping slightly away from Kurt as though fearing his flamboyancy was contagious.

Kurt casually leaned forward -- an imperceptible shifting of weight -- and lo and behold, Mr. Anderson retreated another half step.

Interesting, Kurt thought while Mrs. Anderson looked only slightly surprised from her perch in the living room.

"Kurt. Hello," she said, her voice quiet and unsure. "What do you want?"

"I actually just dropped by to ask you both something," he said, his voice thankfully as cheerful and cordial as he could have hoped. He didn't want to give off a rude impression -- that definitely wouldn't do him any favors -- but appearing to be only interested in his topic seemed like a logical route to follow.

Mrs. Anderson stiffened as though he had threatened her at gunpoint, and Mr. Anderson's expression went from open to closed so quickly it was like a steel door being slammed shut. "Regarding whom?" he asked in a calm, casual tone that would have fooled Kurt if he didn't know, with a sick feeling in his gut, that Mr. Anderson was referring to his own son.

"Do you even know what happened? At all?" he asked softly, still standing in the threshold of the door and addressing both of them. He knew that he wouldn't get the opportunity for a proper sales pitch, but if this was all they would give him, so be it. Maybe a few spying eyes would motivate them to actually listen to Kurt rather than dismiss his words on principle.

"We know that there was an . . . incident at McKinley High," Brian said. "But according to reports, it's under control now, is it not?"

"No," Kurt said quietly.

A pause. "No?" Brian asked, his voice light, almost teasing. "Why would you suppose that?"

"Because no one has been convicted of the crime," Kurt said simply with a shrug.

Both Andersons looked stiff and stoic before Mrs. Anderson's expression slipped into one of faltering unease. "I -- I didn't know that," she admitted.

"Investigations are pending?" Brian asked, and for one moment Kurt could actually believe that beneath the almost clinical business tone there was a genuine undercurrent of concern for his son. But it vanished beneath steely eyes, and Kurt almost shook his head in pure disgust before remembering the question and nodding instead.

"Well, what do you need?" Brian went on, suddenly all business. "If there are any payments that need to be fulfilled, we will be more than happy to comply."

It's like we're not even two people, Kurt thought, bemused. We're just businessmen to him. Associates, nothing more.

"What is so wrong with you," Kurt began softly instead, "that you think the proper way of dealing with the fact that your son was nearly killed is to leave him with his -- friend's family for the weekend?"

He barely restrained himself from saying 'boyfriend,' somehow knowing that Blaine hadn't told his parents about the extent of their relationship. Maybe his mother, he thought, seeing how Emily's face went suddenly soft and remorseful while Brian's only grew harder. And sure enough, Brian's eyes were already regarding him with a new light as though he had adjusted the focus on a particularly stubborn specimen and finally seen it in true light.

"You're -- gay, aren't you?" he said.

"I am," Kurt replied.

Brian rubbed his brow slowly, kneading the flesh there until Kurt wondered if he was trying to erase the knowledge of what the word 'gay' meant from his vocabulary. A silent growl of frustration swelled in his throat before he savagely suppressed it. Now was not the time to pick a fight with Blaine's parents, even though the conversation seemed to be heading inevitably in that direction.

"I simply came here to say that he's your son," Kurt said at last. "And while we love having him around, he needs you, too."

"Oh, why didn't he just say so, we would have picked him up--" Emily began fretfully.

Kurt could see the edge of unease around the words. What are we supposed to do if he actually needs help?

"You could start by actually being parents," he broke in softly, "and caring for him not because he asks for it but because that's what you're supposed to do."

The two Andersons exchanged another look. Brian cleared his throat delicately and broke the mounting silence. "You would prefer that we countermand his wishes and bring him home?"

"I would prefer that you would make it so that home actually means here," Kurt suggested.

Brian's back stiffened as though Kurt had insulted his favorite influential figure, not unlike the way Rachel often straightened indignantly. Still, Kurt felt a little bad for comparing Rachel to this man: at least Rachel definitely wasn't homophobic. "We simply want the best for him," he said. "If he wishes to come here or stay there, we are willing to be accommodating."

"And if we weren't?" Kurt asked in a musing tone. "What if we said that we weren't willing to take him on?"

Brian shrugged, unperturbed. "We would welcome him with open arms here."

Glancing briefly down at Brian's arms, Kurt thought that he wouldn't have opened them to anyone. He didn't look like the sort that hugged well, either, with a lanky frame that was rather unsuited for such things. Fitting, Kurt thought dryly.

"We want him to be happy wherever he is," Emily broke in quietly. "If he prefers to be there, then we didn't want to interfere."

"You couldn't have called?" Kurt asked, shaking his head. "Or even just sent him a text message asking if he was okay? You made one phone call. Do you even know how little that is?"

"He could have called us," Brian said stiffly. "He didn't."

"If you had been badly burned only two days ago, wouldn't you prefer it if your parents called you rather than having to reach out to them? How do you think he feels, knowing that you won't even extend an invitation unless he makes the offer first."

Another uncomfortable silence. Brian again stepped in. "Blaine is eighteen years old. He can make his own decisions."

"Blaine is your son. He would like to have your attention from time to time, too."

"We give him attention," Emily interjected.

"Not when he's hurting, or in pain, or gay," Kurt said roughly.

Brian leveled flat eyes at him. "You're . . . you two. . . ."

"We're together, yes," Kurt said, because lying would be pointless now. "Blaine is my boyfriend, and I'm his."

Brian closed his eyes as though if he counted to ten Kurt would disappear. When he reopened them, Kurt was still standing in the doorway, disgusted.

"You don't care about Blaine. You care about your perfect son, and every time that annoying Blaine side creeps in you wait until it goes away before welcoming your perfect son home. I just have one thing to say to you: the best part about Blaine is the part that you hate, and I won't let you ruin that for him just because you can't stand it."

"What are you going to do?" Brian asked, slightly mockingly. "Withhold our own son from us? I doubt you understand my legal authority, Mr. Hummel."

"I doubt you understand my authority, Mr. Anderson," Kurt retorted. "Blaine is your son. The least you could do would be to actually love him for who he is."

Silence. Kurt waited for ten seconds before turning his heel and marching out, hearing the door shut surprisingly quietly behind him.

Of course, he thought in disgust. Wouldn't want to upset the neighbors.

And the entire drive back to Lima, all he could think was: How does Blaine live with those people? Let alone call them his parents.

* * *

"Where've you been, kiddo?" his dad asked as Kurt stepped in through the front door. Kurt shrugged and shrugged his coat off, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.

"Out," he said elusively.

"It's almost seven," his dad said.

Kurt shrugged. "Lots of traffic."

His dad's eyebrows crept upward suspiciously. "On a Sunday?"

"Mmhmm."

Eyeing him for several moments, his dad simply shook his head and patted him on the shoulder in passing, saying, "Blaine was looking for you earlier, but I think he fell asleep again."

Kurt wandered into the living room, half-expecting to find Blaine there, only to see that the blanket had been neatly folded and the pillow tucked away. Climbing up the stairs and gently pushing his skewed door open enough to slip inside, Kurt surveyed the shade-darkened room and immediately spotted the familiar lump in the blankets. Blaine had drawn down the curtains and tugged the blankets over his head, effectively creating his own little dark coccoon.

Stepping around his stuff on the floor, Kurt sat delicately on the edge of the bed. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Blaine nodded without unburying himself.

"What's wrong?"

Shrug. Flinch.

"Burns?"

Slight nod.

"Headache."

Ginger nod.

Reaching over until his fingers were hovering over the blanket-covered lump that was Blaine's head, Kurt gently tugged the covers away until Blaine's hair was exposed. Blaine grunted at the change and pressed his forehead more deeply against the pillow underneath his head, unspeaking.

"Your parents are wrong," he said softly, unable to resist.

Blaine reacted as if he'd gotten a poorly connected shock. "You -- that's where--" he tried sitting up but given the tangle of blankets and the burns strategically on his shoulders and legs he only managed part of the way before sinking back to his former position. "Oh, Kurt," he rasped as though Kurt somehow needed comforting.

Kurt almost laughed as he shook his head. "I'm fine," he assured, "but as soon as you're better we need to talk seriously about them. Okay?"

Blaine didn't respond for a long time until at last he shuffled enough that he could sit up. He looked disheveled and ragged, borderline pained as he looked at Kurt with morose eyes. "Must we?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes," Kurt said seriously. "I'm not going to let this just slip by. It's completely unacceptable of them, not to mention unfair to you."

"Mmph," Blaine grunted, taking advantage of Kurt's proximity to lean his head on his shoulder.

"It'll work out," Kurt said soothingly.

Another noncommital grunt.

"You know, for someone who's usually so optimistic, you're being very pessimistic today," Kurt pointed out wryly.

Blaine sighed. "S'the morphine."

Laughing softly, Kurt rubbed his lower back until he felt Blaine drift off again, gently maneuvering him so that he was lying back on the pillow. Tugging the blanket back around his shoulders and getting up off the bed, Kurt edged out of the room and carefully shut the door behind him, turning to see his dad climbing the stairs.

"Oh, hey, Kurt, I was just coming to tell you dinner was ready. Blaine want any?"

"He's asleep," Kurt said. Then, unable to help himself, he stepped forward and hugged his dad tightly. "Thank you," he muttered.

His dad hugged him back, clearly confused as he asked, "Anything in particular?"

"No. Just . . . being you," Kurt said and trotted off downstairs before his dad could ask any further questions.

* * *

"So how's Blaine? We haven't heard from you guys at all," Tina said, Mike on the same speakerphone with her.

"Nothing else happened, did it?" Mike put in cautiously.

"No, we're fine," Kurt assured, toying with his phone absentmindedly as he worked on a batch of cookies. Finn had requested them and, for once, Kurt was complying solely because the busywork meant he wasn't thinking about Blaine's parents.

"That's good. We were so worried for them, it's great to know they're all okay," Tina said.

"Totally," Mike agreed.

"They're all over the papers, too. It's crazy; we keep getting thirty minute updates from Rachel saying that she's found yet another article she can use to write her future biography."

Kurt winced sympathetically. "Sorry to hear that," he said, stirring the batter. "She does tend to get a little over ambitious at times, doesn't she?"

"More like way over ambitious," Mike said. "At least we managed to block her number after the first two updates. Artie showed us how."

"That man is a technical wizard," Kurt said, shaking his head. "I'd ask him, too, but sometimes Rachel sends me diva stuff and I wouldn't want to miss it."

"As long as she doesn't start giving you bi-hourly updates. . . ." Tina warned darkly.

"She won't. Because she knows I will destroy her Barbra Streisand collection if she tries."

"I'm glad you have that sorted out," Mike said, his voice crackling slightly as he laughed. "Oh, crap, my mom's coming. Talk to you later?"

"Sure thing. Bye, guys!"

Kurt snapped his phone shut and tucked it into his pocket, neatly putting the tray of cookie batter in the oven as he did so.

Finn ambled casually into the kitchen, looking just a little too intently at the oven to pass for 'casual.' "Is it done yet?" he asked.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I just put it in, Finn."

Finn groaned in exasperation. "Dude, how long can it take?"

"Twenty minutes," Kurt said promptly, shooing at him with his oven mitt. "Go on. Kill the mindless zombies, and I'll let you know when it's done."

Grumbling to himself, Finn retreated. Kurt walked back over towards the stove, intent on picking up his Vogue magazine and settling down at the table until it was done, when a pair of warm arms wrapped around his waist. "Guess who."

"Hmmm . . . you're too short to be Finn." A snort of laughter. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Just . . . wanted to say hi."

"Oh." Kurt turned slowly around, draping his own arms around Blaine's waist. "Hi," he said softly.

Blaine shimmied a little closer, resting his head against Kurt's shoulder.

"Someone's feeling cuddly," Kurt said in an amused voice.

"Don't worry. I'll be meaner tomorrow," Blaine said, making no move to back away.

"You? Mean? That's like Finn being eloquent."

"It could happen," Blaine mumbled.

"Are the cookies done -- oh. Hi, Blaine."

"Hi, Finn," Blaine said, still unmoving, even though Kurt tried to back away slightly, embarrassed.

"I'll, uh, just go back to Call of Duty."

"Good idea."

"Let me know when the cookies are done."

Blaine tilted his head forward in a vague nod. "Mmhmm."

Finn darted out of the kitchen, seemingly grateful for the excuse to not interrupt a 'couple-y' moment, as he had deemed them. Blaine whined slightly when Kurt gently disentangled them, peering in the oven at his cookie tray anxiously.

"Cookies over your boyfriend?"

"Delicious cookies," Kurt corrected. "But they're not finished yet."

"Mmph," Blaine said, "I still think boyfriend should win."

"Of course you do. Because you're the boyfriend."

"Exactly," Blaine said, grinning.

Kurt sighed but against that look it was no contest. He opened his arms and let Blaine sidle close, realizing for the first time that maybe Blaine wanting closeness wasn't him just being his usually playful self. Maybe he actually needed it, like the night he had when he appeared in Kurt's doorway looking like someone had crushed him.

Holding him just a little tighter, Kurt would have stayed like that forever if the oven alarm hadn't gone off. At which point he was reduced to fending Finn off valiantly with his oven mitt while simultaneously pulling the hot tray out of the oven, Blaine watching on amusedly from his corner.

This could work, he thought in amusement, as he finally allowed both Finn and Blaine to claim sizeable portions of the tray. (Finn took seven, Blaine took three.) He took one for himself and smiled as he took a bite.

Yes, this will work. Somehow.


	13. Chapter 13

"I can't believe how disorganized this is," Kurt said, staring at the attendance records of the past three days.

Rachel and he had gotten permission from Figgins to look through the files in their 'confidential' format, which essentially showed the classrooms without the students listed by name. There were noticeable discrepancies between first period on Thursday and what would have been the first class on Friday, including roughly thirty students that were unaccounted for at some point or another. The attendance sheets were deplorably thin with only the barest listings of students available, including entire weeks where certain teachers neglected to file the lists.

It was no surprise that no one had been taking an overall head count during McKinley's first fire in more than fifty years (apparently someone back in the sixties had burned down the entire cafeteria in a pro-vegan campaign). There weren't any records of fire drills, and more than half of the teachers hadn't reported their student attendance until after the fire department had arrived on the scene. McKinley was an organizational disaster waiting to happen, and now that it had happened and the perpetrator hadn't been high off cleaner and therefore relatively easy to apprehend on the scene, Kurt felt righteously angry at the results.

We still haven't caught the guy because there are so many suspects.

Kurt looked over the scores of 'anonymous' listed on the sheet, each given an ID number that allowed him to track whether or not there were 'holes' in the attendance. The investigators had already had their hand at it, pulling out the fifty and narrowing them down to twenty. Unfortunately, it was impossible to know purely on suspicion from there if someone in first block biology or third block culinary arts had set it off.

Then again, Kurt mused, I really can't see a pyromaniac wearing an apron.

Puck, Mike, and Tina were included in the original fifty (eliminated, of course, courtesy of the fact that they were on the football field at the time when the incident had occurred), Mercedes, Brittany, and Blaine also mentioned. (Once more, those three had been swiftly relieved of the 'suspect' categorization due to the impossibility that they could have both set off the fire after being trapped in the basement and also barred their own escape.)

"This is insane," Kurt deadpanned as he looked at Mrs. Marley's first period chemistry class. There were only twenty students, a relatively narrow pool to draw from, but she was listed as one of the few teachers who had reported their student head count before the fire department had arrived, nullifying the possibility that any of them were suspect. The science teachers in general seemed to be the most diligent: of the nine faculty responsible for those classes, eight had turned in reports beforehand (academic earth and space, first period, had been turned in shortly after the fire department's appearance).

The remainder of the classes were dreadfully sparse, opening the field up to more than two hundred students. Anyone who had reported after the fire department arrived was technically under suspicion: without confirmation of at least a dozen witnesses, it was impossible to know whether or not the students had actually been on the football field (as everyone said) or inside when the fire was set. The general confusion of the incident (and lack of a general announcement that it was a real emergency and not a drill) had resulted in few confirmed time frames of the incident.

In fact, one of the most solid pieces of evidence that investigators had was Brittany's phone, given that it listed, minute for minute, the timeframe of the incident. Of course, it was impossible to know the exact moment it began: Blaine could only estimate in his statement that perhaps three minutes passed between the shove that had knocked him down the stairs and the first text message he sent out. The alarms, he claimed, had been going off for maybe a minute before he convinced Brittany to hand over her phone and started texting Kurt.

From there, the true guesswork began: investigators knew that, since Blaine's first text was sent out at 7:43 AM, the suspect must have entered the room before then. Automatically eliminated from the suspect list were people legitimately identified as absentees; the entire cheerleading squad was cleared due to an early practice session from seven thirty to nine, disqualifying the possibility that they had been anywhere near the chemistry lab at the time (on the other side of the building, it had to be noted).

Anywhere from 6:25 AM (the earliest arrival: the ancient calculus teacher, Mr. Barnaby) to 7:41 AM, the suspect entered the building. The first student to arrive came at 6:57 AM (Alex Larson), the last at 7:43 AM (Jacob Wolfe). Between that time, four hundred and twenty-seven people entered McKinley high, and according to the attendance lists, almost forty of them were not accounted for in any classroom.

Of course, even more weren't listed until the fire department arrived, which still meant they were in consideration. Ultimately, however, the fifty gaps that were most consistent between the past three days were pulled, and of those, the investigators had been able to disqualify thirty.

That only leaves twenty people, Kurt thought, looking across the seven-digit ID numbers that marked the twenty still under consideration.

Six were female, fourteen male. One of the females was actually Sugar Motta, who Blaine had personally vouched for as being innocent (his demonstration had been simple: without letting her know beforehand, he managed to irritate her enough that she made an attempt to shove him, only succeeding in pushing herself back a little. The fire department had promptly agreed that even if Blaine had been balanced on the edge of his toes (the least supportive position), Sugar Motta couldn't have moved him without outside assistance).

Which actually left nineteen people. Twenty was the official number (rounded numbers were easier to work with, for whatever reason), but nineteen was the true number of suspects that the investigators were considering.

Nine of the fourteen males were upperclassmen. The remaining five were involved athletically, either lacrosse, hockey, football, or wrestling. All could plausibly have pushed Blaine down the stairs and shoved the chemistry table in front of the door, barring it. Feasibly, all could have been in the building at the same time as the incident and exited before anyone noticed their absence before being marked as 'in attendance' during the drill. All had belonged to classrooms that listed their students as 'unaccounted for' until after the fire department arrived.

The females were less suspect: excluding Sugar, the other five looked largely incapable of the physical feat of moving the chemistry tables around, even if they could have plausibly pushed Blaine down the stairs. Had Blaine been twenty pounds heavier and a couple inches taller, he could probably have completely eliminated females from the 'top twenty.'

Unfortunately, given his stature, Blaine was, simply put, a pushover. So the females were still under consideration, even though Blaine and Kurt both thought it was ridiculous.

Kurt looked at the twenty notecards, tediously looking through the records to match their days up with the times they had entered and left classrooms. Playing investigator was a role that he hadn't necessarily considered for himself when this all began, but after hearing just how disorganized the system was from Rachel, Kurt couldn't help his own curiosity.

This needs to change, Kurt thought as he traced a bio-gym-history-English student through only two-thirds of his classes, the remaining third left unmarked. We need to have a better system than this. Even for Lima, this isn't just ridiculous, it's dangerous.

The chemistry fire was a perfect opportunity, in an ironic way, for Kurt to build up his class presidential campaign. Everyone at McKinley knew about the fire, and the vast majority knew that Blaine Anderson had been involved (the remaining two percent didn't read newspapers or watch television on principle). Most people were clambering to know who was responsible for the whole thing, too, and Kurt knew that a complete failure of organization was largely responsible for the suspect's continued free-reign. If he could combine their curiosity with his willingness and desire to change the system, then he could earn their votes.

Between that and PFLAG, Kurt Hummel was going to revolutionize McKinley.

Looking back down at the papers scattered around in front of him, meticulously organized into approximately thirty stacks (each representing a different class for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday), Kurt picked up the list of suspects that the investigators had finally disclosed. He was surprised to see Karofsky's name there, but his absence -- unconfirmed, since no one really knew where he was except not at McKinley -- made him eligible, since he was still listed as attending McKinley. Kurt could tell based on the holes that he had been there for at least three days and that his history teacher had neglected to turn the attendance list in until after the fire department arrived: hence the suspicion.

The thought that Karofsky had evolved from death threats to near-fatal attempts on someone's life made Kurt shiver.

He had thought that Karofsky had reformed the previous year. He had seen how apologetic he had been when he finally told him that he was sorry for everything, genuinely regretful of what he had done. Kurt had been willing to forgive him then and since, given his failure to revert back into his old bullying self (which, Kurt admitted privately, had been a worry for several weeks after Karofsky's confession, even if it had sounded sincere). Now, however, Kurt couldn't completely set aside the possibility that Karofsky was responsible for this.

He still remembered the first time that he had confronted Karofsky with Blaine, how things had actually seemed to be going all right (Karofsky had been surprisingly receptive, if not in the conventional way: his worry about being caught showed that he wasn't willing to let the confrontation go completely unacknowledged, even if Kurt had been half-convinced he would). Then Blaine had taken one step too far -- You should just know that you're not alone -- and before Kurt could fully process what was happening, he drove Blaine back against the fence.

In that moment, Karofsky hadn't been human. In that moment, Kurt was unpleasantly convinced, Karofsky might have actually hurt Blaine to make him shut up.

Of course, that confrontation hadn't ended as disastrously as it might have, Kurt pushing Karofsky off before he could do any damage and Blaine nonchalant about the whole thing. Well he's not coming out any time soon.

Blaine's attitude towards Karofsky had been mixed, though, as was demonstrated when Karofsky appeared in the hall during the Night of Neglect concert. This time it was Karofsky who had stepped out of line, spoken one word too far for Blaine's tolerance to stand, and Blaine had driven him back, if only to have a half-wild Karofsky bearing down on him a moment later.

If Santana hadn't intervened then, Kurt didn't even want to think about how that fight would have ended.

As far as Kurt knew, however, that was the last contact Blaine and Karofsky had directly had. Even at prom, they had somehow avoided each other, and Karofsky had fled during the Dancing Queen number before Blaine appeared.

It's possible, he allowed, mentally filing Karofsky's name away for later. He could always ask Blaine about it, see if they had run into one another on accident outside of Kurt's knowledge.

Kurt frowned. Blaine would have told him if he had, surely.

"Do you want to take a break?" Rachel asked, startling him from his reverie. He realized that he had been staring blankly at Karofsky's name, motionless, for nearly five minutes as he looked back up at the clock on the wall and saw it was nearly noon. He nodded slightly, wincing when his neck creaked -- they had been sorting papers since eight -- and stood up.

Kurt pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Blaine, Are you busy? He focused on carefully tucking the sheets away into folders, easily accessible for further investigation.

His phone vibrated just as he was putting the last folder neatly on the lowest level of the book shelf, Rachel tugging her bag over her shoulder.

Brittany's enlightening me about the existence of unicorns right now, but I'm sure I could convince her to take a break for lunch.

Brittany learned how to text? Kurt asked, surprised.

He could almost hear Blaine laugh on the other end as he wrote, No, but she did remember where your house was and dropped by. We made pancakes. :)

Kurt rolled his eyes. Did you save any for me? he asked.

No. Finn ate them all. He said it was 'revenge' for last time.

Kurt lifted an eyebrow even though Blaine couldn't see it and locked the door to Figgins' office behind him. Last time?

Something about a browser history.

Oh. That last time.

Don't mind him. He's just being petty, Kurt replied.

So, are we doing lunch? :)

Kurt rolled his eyes. You use smileys too much.

A pause. Then: Clearly, you have never texted Jeff. I think he's permanently corrupted me.

Shaking his head to himself as he walked out the teacher's entrance and back towards the student parking lot, Kurt wrote, 'Jeff' and 'permanently corrupted' should never be in the same sentence. I think I'm scarred for life now.

Kurt tugged open the door of his Navigator and hopped in the driver's seat, shutting the door and waiting for the next text. Touché, Blaine wrote. So you'll be here in twenty?

See you soon, Kurt agreed, pocketing his phone and turning on the car.

Sure enough, Blaine and Brittany (well, more likely Blaine: Kurt didn't know if Brittany knew how) had made pancakes, the smell of syrup greeting Kurt as he stepped inside the Hudson-Hummel residence. "Hey, Kurt," Brittany said, practically bouncing in her seat as she showed off her plush unicorn. "This is my unicorn. I'm showing Blaine so they can be friends, since they're both unicorns now."

"Hey," Blaine said, standing up and walking over. He was barefoot again -- for all that he loved his Warbler uniform, Blaine also seemed to love walking around barefoot -- and the burns around his ankles were visible, but he still had a beaming smile in place. "Ready?"

"Where are we going?" Brittany asked, hopping up and draping her unicorn casually over Blaine's good shoulder so she could hug Kurt.

"Lunch," Kurt answered while Blaine casually put the unicorn on top of his head instead. "Ha ha," he said dryly, reaching over to swat Blaine's head in retaliation. Blaine hopped lightly out of the way, grinning.

"Aww, Kurt, he likes you," Brittany said.

Yes, he does, Kurt thought, but he wasn't thinking about the unicorn.

Or, at least, not the plush one, he mused.

* * *

Two gay men, a cheerleader, and a plush unicorn sitting on a bench.

Yes, Kurt admitted, this was probably the strangest lunch crowd he'd ever been a part of, but it certainly wasn't unpleasant.

Although the general tone of the conversation was much lighter than the circumstances warranted (we should be talking about your parents, or the fire, or something serious, Kurt thought, looking pointedly at Blaine), Kurt was grateful for the reprieve. Every day he was closer to graduating, and that meant that he should be taking advantage of every day left of his senior year.

Despite Brittany's confidence that she would finally pass her classes, Kurt knew that she was about as likely to graduate as the poles were to switch places.

Blaine, on the other hand, had his mind set on making the best of his time at McKinley, and if his optimism surprised Kurt, he certainly wasn't displeased by it.

I just don't understand it, Kurt thought, taking a bite of his sub to avoid speaking as he watched Blaine explaining the difference between a Warbler and a Gargler to Brittany. How can someone that genuine come from parents who are so . . . intolerable?

Blaine was the nicest person he'd ever met; Blaine's parents could win dual awards for the 'Worst Parent of the Year.'

Somehow, impossibly, Blaine persisted.

There has to be something I'm missing, Kurt thought. Something. There's no way someone as nice as Blaine lives with people as horrid as them.

Kurt's logic piped in then. He did live with the Warblers for two years. Maybe he changed then?

People don't change in two years, Kurt rebutted. Especially if they've been living for years--

Pause.

Did this just start when he came out of the closet?

Blaine nudged his shoulder lightly. "You're being quiet."

"I'm thinking," Kurt said truthfully.

"Is that why're you sad?" Brittany asked. "He'll make it better," she added, handing him the unicorn.

Kurt stared at the cotton-candy-colored creature that was now sitting on his lap before shaking his head. "I'm not sad, Britt," he assured, delicately lifting the unicorn around its midriff and handing it back to Brittany. "I'm just . . . thinking."

"Don't think too hard," Brittany warned. "It'll make you sad."

Kurt blinked, surprised at how insightful that was. Usually Brittany's advice was more amusing than valuable, but occasionally she said something that was actually worth noting. Maybe that's all I have to do, he mused. Stop thinking so much.

If only, if only.

* * *

"Boyfriend intervention," Blaine said, casually shutting the folder with PFLAG information that Kurt had been diligently reviewing since noon. Kurt scowled, about to argue. He hadn't been working that much. He looked at the clock and noted pointedly that it was only -- five. Oh.

"Sorry," he said, knowing that having only Finn for company wasn't exactly the most jolly good time when you couldn't do anything sport-related. Kurt didn't like sports, anyway, but Blaine didn't mind tossing a football around if Puck wasn't around and Finn wanted someone to hang out with. Of course, during the brief period where Finn's behavior towards Blaine was completely uncalled for at best, he hadn't done any of that, but with the burns on Blaine's right hand still tender (the bandage would come off tomorrow), he couldn't exactly resort to that either.

"You've got four days," Blaine assured, not sounding upset at all. "Don't stress yourself out about this too much already."

"I'm not stressing out about it," Kurt said at once.

"You've been working on it since noon," Blaine replied. "Maybe you're not stressing yet, but at this rate you're going to burn yourself out."

"How would you know?" Kurt asked, putting on a mock-haughty tone. "Maybe I'll never burn out."

"Oh, you will," Blaine assured. "If you keep going at it like this. Give yourself a break some times, Kurt. At least if you're going to plan for five hours have some leisure time in the middle."

Kurt shrugged, accepting Blaine's good hand and getting off his bed. "Fine. What do you want to do?"

"Uh uh. This is your leisure time. I've already had mine."

Kurt paused, considering that. Then he grinned.

"Okay," he said. "But remember, you agreed."

* * *

"I knew it," Blaine sulked. "This is borderline sadistic. I don't even look good in green."

"Hmm," Kurt said, ignoring the complaints. He was lounging in one of the comfortable armchairs outside the dressing room, idly sorting through which colors Blaine looked best in. He did have outfits to coordinate, after all, so this was really killing two birds with one stone: leisure time and some productive output in the end. Blaine, who was too boyish to appreciate the difficulty of achieving such a win-win situation, had decided that Kurt simply liked staring at him.

I do, Kurt thought, while adamantly insisting the contrary aloud.

Flicking his fingers in a vaguely shooing gesture, Kurt said dismissively, "No."

Blaine gave him a last pouting look before retreating back for the next shirt.

Kurt would have taken him out sooner for clothes but the burns on Blaine's left shoulder had taken a few days to heal enough that it didn't aggravate them to pull shirts on and off. If Kurt had been the one in question, he would have gone shoe shopping, but taking pity on his boyfriend, he had restrained himself and waited until Blaine was up to shirt shopping.

So, here they were, shirt-shopping.

Of course, Blaine's right hand was still burned and bandaged which slowed how quickly he could pull said shirts on and off, but Kurt didn't mind waiting. He was texting Rachel absently while he waited, debating about whether or not he should press forward with his PFLAG or class presidential campaign first.

Rachel thought class president (it relates more directly to your admission to NYADA, Kurt) but Kurt was torn. Yes, he wanted to make sure his class presidential campaign was strong, but he couldn't neglect PFLAG in the mean time.

It all boils down to organization, he mused as Blaine stepped out in a violet-blue shirt.

Hmm. That looks nice, Kurt thought. He allowed a suitably long period of time to pass, Blaine folding his arms absentmindedly and lifting an eyebrow.

"And . . . ?"

"It's a good color on you," Kurt allowed. Really good. We're keeping that. "Next."

Blaine groaned loudly and obediently trudged back for the next shirt.

* * *

"Can you believe it's been a week already?" Blaine asked, flexing his right hand and looking at the burn mark curiously.

"Will you stop that?" Kurt grumbled. He didn't enjoy 'battle scars,' and Blaine's burn definitely qualified as one of those things he found no fascination in examining to a greater extent. The bandage had finally come off, an apparent relief to Blaine, who couldn't stop flexing his hand. He also kept accidentally picking things up with that hand, however, the resultant winces and hasty corrections making Kurt inwardly think he should have kept the bandage.

But it was Blaine's choice, and if he wanted the bandage off then Kurt consented. Besides, in a strange way, he was grateful: by taking the bandage off, it meant that Blaine was healing enough that he didn't need it. Yes, the wound still looked hideous, but overall, it was getting better, and that mattered far more to Kurt than if he had to keep wearing the bandage because it wasn't healing.

"I just can't believe it's been a week," Blaine repeated, sitting on the back porch, his legs hanging over the edge. Those burns were looking a lot better, too, but Kurt also pointedly avoiding looking at them any longer than a passing glance would allow. Morbid curiosity kept drawing his gaze back to them; his own dislike of such things kept pushing it away. The combination was giving him a very confusing headache.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked.

"I'm fine," Kurt said reflexively, looking skyward as Blaine flexed his 'bad hand' again. "I'm just . . . how are you so okay?"

Blaine blinked, evidently startled. "It's been a week, Kurt."

"You nearly died."

"I'm fine now."

"That doesn't erase the fact that you nearly died."

Blaine shrugged a little. "I guess it's just not on my mind that much," he said simply.

Liar, Kurt thought. No one was that indifferent to a near-death experience, even if he was Blaine Anderson. Still, Blaine had stopped flexing his hand and was looking at him, concerned, and Kurt waved his own hand to dismiss it. Blaine shouldn't be concerned for him. He hadn't even been hurt, unless trauma from wondering whether his boyfriend and friends would be alive counted.

"I'm fine now," Blaine repeated, reaching over with his good hand to squeeze Kurt's. "It's not . . . we're all fine. If someone had been hurt, then yes, I'd be more upset, but--"

Very lightly, Kurt reached over and tapped the center of Blaine's bad hand once.

Blaine winced.

"Okay, if someone had been badly hurt," he amended, but Kurt didn't let him finish.

"No matter how you phrase it, it's still horrible. I just don't understand how you're so . . . calm about the whole thing."

"As long as they catch whoever is responsible," Blaine said seriously, "I'm not worried. If they don't. . . ." He shrugged.

It was Kurt's turn to wince. He couldn't imagine what would happen if they didn't catch whoever was responsible for the blaze. It was unthinkable, and yet all too possible with all of the holes and flaws in McKinley's system.

It needs to change, Kurt thought firmly. Whatever else happens, that needs to change. This can't happen again.

"They'll catch him," Kurt said.

"Hmm," Blaine answered noncommittally.

"And we're going to change the system," he added.

Blaine's eyebrows lifted as he looked at Kurt. "What system?"

"McKinley's. Not just glee club, not just PFLAG, but the entire school. Do you even know how many flaws are there right now? If nothing else, we need to make sure that this doesn't happen again. Because I couldn't stand to lose you or anyone in glee club just because the system was faulty."

Looking contemplative, Blaine flexed his hand once. "We're going to change the system," he said at last, musing.

Kurt nodded, actually managing a grin. "We're going to change the system," he repeated.

We're going to revolutionize McKinley, he thought privately, and couldn't help the immense satisfaction he felt that it was a we.


	14. Chapter 14

If Kurt's life had accompanying background music, this would be the moment where La Marseillaise would be playing.

He walked down the halls of McKinley with both PFLAG and his class presidential campaign papers in hand, ready for one last visit to Principal Figgins' office. Of the nineteen suspects, all of the girls had been cleared and four of the boys had also been reinstated as non-suspects. The remaining group of ten were still undecided, but investigators promised that safety measures would be taken to ensure that life could resume peacefully at William McKinley High School.

Peacefully, until Kurt Hummel rocks the boat.

Kurt had three main goals in mind, as well as three main areas he wanted to attack.

The first: the glee club and its subsequent presidential election. He didn't want to elect a president for the glee club unless it was truly proven to be imperative to their success (or at least bettered performances) at competitions. If there was no benefit of having a president, however, as he suspected, and it would only create a false sense of superiority, then Kurt would wage full-scale war against it.

The second: the PFLAG operation and an anti-bullying policy. Not only did Kurt want to 'ban' the slushying policy, but he also wanted that alliance to foster between both glee club and non-glee club members. The latter would be undeniably more difficult to persuade, but if people like Finn could reform and reconcile their attitude, then Kurt was confident a decent percentage of McKinley could be won over by it as well.

The third -- and most ambitious -- of his three targets and goals: the McKinley High faculty system and the utter lack of organization. The first challenge would be convincing Principal Figgins that it was a worthwhile cause. Subsequent obstacles ranged anywhere from actually having attendance lists be accurate to keeping track of the student body as a whole. If there was suspicious behavior or bullying going on, teachers weren't supposed to turn a blind eye to it. The PFLAG operation would also struggle without adult support and enforcement. While it would ultimately be a student organization, there was still the crucial participation and involvement of adults, and thus the need for organization at the higher levels of McKinley as well.

Unlocking the door to Figgins' office with the key that Principal Figgins had let him borrow for the morning, Kurt stepped inside and gaped.

Not only were the folders that he had been meticulously organizing for weeks not on the shelf he had left them on, there was evidence around the paper shredder in the corner that a sizeable stack of papers had been devoured. Kurt stared blankly at the empty shelf for several long moments, disbelieving.

They were not the only records of the attendance, of course, but they were the only hard copies. The remaining back-ups were all electronic, harder to access and more difficult to manipulate. Tracking down the classes of the ten top suspects had been difficult enough after three days of hard work: somehow, between Saturday night and Sunday morning, someone had broken into Figgins office and completely destroyed them all.

The paper shredder had even been emptied with only traces of paper around the serrated edges of the machine. If Kurt didn't know any better, he could have sworn that someone had just come in to use it to shred a good stack of papers, not the entirety of the hard copies of McKinley attendance over those three crucial days.

Someone knew Kurt was looking at them, examining them, organizing. Perhaps that same someone even knew that he was slowly narrowing down his own list of suspects based on the classes and times during which the suspects had been in the school and that his lists included only five suspects, unlike the investigators' continued list of ten.

That someone knew that Kurt was on to him. That someone was worried enough that he had destroyed evidence that could have incriminated him.

Whoever had done this, Kurt realized, was not just doing it out of blind hate. This was methodical. This had some reason behind it. This was planned. Kurt was intruding on those plans, making it easier to detect who had set the fire, and now the person had taken matters into his own hands and removed Kurt's tools.

Kurt was looking for him, but someone else was also keeping tabs on him, too, making sure that he didn't do anything that would possibly get him arrested.

Carefully shutting the door behind him and locking it, Kurt restrained himself from pulling out his phone until he was back in the driver's seat of his Navigator.

"Hello, Principal Figgins? Someone broke into your office last night and destroyed all the hard copies of the attendance."

* * *

It only took twenty minutes for Kurt to decide that going back to school on Monday was going to be significantly more dangerous than the generally placating spokespeople for the investigators had made it seem. While they were confident that the investigations would reach a conclusive head before long, Kurt wasn't so sure that they had any more leads to follow, and the attendance records had left Kurt at a grinding halt once he narrowed it down to five. He couldn't seem to narrow the results any further, no matter how he traced things, without further evidence. All five were equally likely to have set off the fire and pushed Blaine down the stairs before locking him and two other students in to roast or suffocate, whichever came first.

All five could have done the crime. But Kurt didn't need four extra possibilities: he just needed the one culprit.

This is the part where you back out and find somewhere safe to hide until this is over, Kurt's generally unhelpful cowardly side pointed out.

He had already gone through the experience of having someone keeping tabs on him, wanting to know whether or not he revealed that dangerous little secret about him. Karofsky's threats had been more than enough for him personally to want to ever experience. This time, it wasn't even his life that was in danger (yet, his logical side mused) and he was half-terrified.

The side of him that was terrified wanted to send Blaine back to Dalton right now. The fact that whoever had set the fire was not only still on the loose but also keeping close enough tabs on them to remove important pieces of evidence from the picture unnerved Kurt to no end. He wanted Blaine to be safe above everything, and if that meant he needed to go back to Dalton, then Kurt would much rather have him there than here.

On the other hand, the oddly calm side of Kurt knew that sending Blaine back to Dalton wouldn't fix the problem. Whoever had done this was clearly invested enough to risk murdering two additional people and consequently spending years in prison all for a specific aim. With a goal that serious, Kurt knew he wouldn't be deterred until it was reached. The only way to win at this game was to head him off before he succeeded: otherwise, nothing mattered.

Blaine's not going to die, Kurt told himself fiercely as he parked his Navigator and hurried to the door of his house, unable to stop his own nerves from quickening his pace. He's not. He'll be fine. They'll catch whoever did this and he'll be fine.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Blaine asked, lounging on the couch with his laptop while Kurt walked briskly over to the kitchen table and set his folder down on it. He retraced his steps and locked the front door behind him, something that he usually didn't bother with on a general basis and then sat down at the table, putting his head in his hands.

Blaine was at his side in seconds, his own chair pulled close to Kurt's and his arms wrapped around him. It was only then that Kurt realized he was trembling and, despite the realization, he couldn't stop. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands -- get a hold of yourself! -- but it didn't make a difference.

"It's okay," Blaine said, his voice warm and soothing and exactly the drug Kurt needed right now to drag him away from the painfully sharp reality. "It'll be okay," Blaine promised.

Kurt shivered and listened and hoped that Blaine was right.

* * *

Blaine had been emailing David about the news in Lima when Kurt walked through the door, looking haunted.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he had asked, but Kurt had already been moving, disappearing into the kitchen before locking the door and stepping back into the kitchen. Blaine quickly set his laptop to hibernate mode and stood up, following Kurt into the kitchen and dragging a chair over when he saw Kurt sitting, hunched, with his head in his hands. Blaine barely even noticed that he used his bad hand to grab the chair, more focused on wrapping his arms around Kurt. He could see the tremors visibly, feel them to his bones, and it worried him that something had unnerved Kurt this much. He hadn't seen Kurt this at ends since Karofsky's death threat.

Something had happened. What, Blaine didn't know, but something very bad, if it could upset Kurt this much.

"It's okay," he said, even while he inwardly wondered if it really was. He had known that Kurt was going to do some more 'organizational' work at McKinley using Principal Figgins office, planning on meeting him at around ten o'clock or so to take a break. Kurt had left at eight; a quick glance at the clock showed that it was only eight fifty.

Blaine didn't bother ask Kurt what was wrong, instead just keeping up a continuous stream of encouragement, waiting until Kurt's trembling finally ceased.

"Done?" he asked gently.

Kurt turned in response and tugged him into a hug so hard Blaine felt ribs creaking and his shoulder sear with pain. He didn't resist, just holding him back, waiting for Kurt to retake control of himself again.

At last, as Kurt withdrew and sat back in his chair, it seemed like he had. He even cast a guilty look at Blaine's shoulder, where Blaine was rubbing gingerly above the burns -- a reflexive gesture meant to soothe pain when it couldn't. Blaine shook his head, dismissive, and asked, "What happened?" He kept his voice just as low and gentle before. Both Finn and Burt were still asleep, anyway (Sunday tradition) and Carole was off doing Sunday morning errands after church.

Kurt relaxed a little as though the thought of seclusion calmed him. Blaine's worry inched up another notch but he managed to suppress it from showing outwardly. This was about Kurt, not worrying Kurt even more because he was worried. More than ever, Blaine felt like a mixture of the mentor figure he had first been when he met Kurt and the boyfriend that he had been long since.

"He . . . someone broke into Figgins' office," Kurt said quietly, closing his eyes. "They destroyed all of the attendance records regarding the incident."

Pause.

Should we continue this? Blaine wondered. What if it puts Kurt in danger?

Well, Blaine's logical side retorted. He's already been put in danger. Someone knows.

Someone knows.

The silence felt absolute.

Blaine had experiences with bullies of varying degrees. He had learned how to ignore the taunts without igniting the flashpoints. But there were certain people that required no temptation, that operated under their own justifications and motives, heedless of the world around them.

This person, whoever he was, sounded like one of them.

"No one else knows?" he asked, more vacant curiosity than any genuine interest.

Kurt shrugged. "I talked with Principal Figgins." Shaking his head, Kurt looked at Blaine, needing an answer. "What do we do?"

Good question, the perpetually optimistic side of Blaine quipped.

Blaine inwardly rolled his eyes, even though his heart wasn't in it.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know where to turn, now that his parents were barred off and the investigators were stuck on the third round of suspects.

Do we even dare go back to school on Monday? he wondered. This person sounded like he was rapidly approaching that leap from rationality over to insanity. Risking exposure, he had come back to destroy records that marked his path; clearly, being caught was no longer on the foremost of his agenda. Succeeding was.

The phone rang. Not Blaine's, not Kurt's.

The actual kitchen phone.

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look.

At last, on the fourth ring, Blaine stood up and picked it off its holder. Then, taking a breath: "Hello?"

"Um . . . hi," a slightly gruff, familiar voice said. "I'm Dave Karofsky. Is this the Hummels?"

* * *

For the better part of twenty minutes, Kurt and Blaine listened to Dave Karofsky speak, heads close so they could both hear what he was saying.

Had Burt or Finn walked down the stairs at that moment, Blaine mused, it would have been an odd picture at best, the two of them talking seriously into the phone while Karofsky answered gruffly on the other end.

Blaine's knee-jerk reaction to the call was to hang up. His rational reaction was to stay on the line, and his this is right reaction was to keep Karofsky talking.

So, in the end, he stayed on the phone, overriding his reflex response.

It was incredibly strange, talking with the same person who had, only months ago, threatened to kill Kurt. If Blaine had been surveyed on his reaction beforehand, he would have said that he would be angry and irrational, unable to help snapping at the person who had made Kurt's life so miserable at times.

Instead, he was actually listening, and if that wasn't the strangest thing that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Blaine didn't know what was.

The content was almost as mystifying as the occurrence.

Karofsky had figured it out. Karofsky had a lead.

Karofsky knew who had set the fire off.

Again, Blaine's knee-jerk reaction was to disbelieve him. Karofsky could be using a friend's name to protect his own from being incriminated. Karofsky could also be using a false trail set up to defend the real perpetrator from justice.

Or, most simply of all, Karofsky could be the one responsible, using the phone call to dissuade suspicion from his name.

Blaine had seen Kurt's list of suspects before, and one of the names included in the top five was David Karofsky.

Nevertheless, here Blaine was, listening to Karofsky speak, and somehow believing him.

"I know that I'm not exactly the most trustworthy person right now," Karofsky said, as though he had read Blaine's mind. "And I'd rather meet in person. But for now I can give you a name. Jeremy Bletcher."

Five syllables that could change the entire game, if Karofsky was right.

If he was right.

"Where do you want to meet?" Kurt asked, his voice steady. Blaine admired that he could keep his head even when talking with someone like Karofsky; Kurt had told him that he had 'forgiven' Karofsky somewhat, but Blaine wouldn't have 'forgiven' half of his old tormentors with solely an apology as recompense.

"Lima Bean, two hours?"

Blaine glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen. He looked at Kurt, who shrugged, then answered, "All right. We'll see you there. Bye."

Karofsky grunted something to the same effect before hanging up, Kurt doing the same on their end. "Do you think he has a lead?" he asked Blaine at once, expression very serious.

Blaine shook his head. "I don't know," was all he said.

* * *

"Long time, no see, Karofsky," Blaine said lightly.

The jock grunted, for once not wearing a letterman jacket but a simple gray hoodie with the McKinley logo on the upper left corner. He had his arms folded as he stood, looking over at Blaine as he approached. Kurt was silent beside him, eyeing Karofsky with something akin to skepticism, before Blaine gestured casually inside the Lima Bean.

The good news: Sundays were fairly crowded, so while it took some maneuvering to find an empty table in a corner, the general blur of conversation around them prevented easy eavesdropping. The public nature of the place also put some of Blaine's suspicions at ease, even if he wasn't fully committed to accepting Kafosky's word that this 'Jeremy Bletcher' character was responsible for the fire. The warm, bright atmosphere usually had an uplifting effect on Blaine, but today it only highlighted how dark their little corner was, mulling over the identity of a would-be murderer.

"So, Dave," Kurt said, his voice arching over the syllables as though they were nails being tapped on a chalkboard, "what do you have to say?"

Karofsky looked at his hands for several long, quiet moments, undecided. The smattering of jovial conversation around them did nothing to improve the gravity around them: the silence had reached near suffocating intensity before at last Karofsky spoke.

"I read the articles," he said bluntly, staring down Kurt and Blaine alternately. He couldn't seem to decide which of them was acting as the 'spokesman,' so he settled on both of them and divided his attention. "I heard that they were resuming classes on Monday." He shrugged, suddenly looked uncomfortable, and hunched his shoulders as though it would somehow minimize the impact of his next words. "I don't want to be responsible for a murder. Even if it's indirectly. I know it's Jeremy, and--" He shook his head, at a loss for words.

"He's messed up," was the politically correct version of what he said next. "He's always been kind of . . . weird but we all just laughed it off. He set things on fire for fun. Guess this was his way of getting kicks." He lowered his voice again, so rumbling that it was almost impossible to distinguish his next words from the general gravelly noise that his voice made. "This guy isn't afraid of authority. I didn't say anything at first because I figured they'd catch him, but . . . he's really messed up," he repeated, once more with the politically correct censure.

"Would he . . . do something like this again?" Kurt asked quietly.

"Yes," Karofsky said with absolute certainty. "And he wouldn't eff up this time, either."

Blaine steepled his fingers as he considered the news, noticing the way Kurt leaned back a little, also thinking. Karofsky shifted again, uneasy.

"I know neither of you like me," he said, again utilizing that refreshingly blunt characteristic that Blaine might have found offensive elsewhere if it hadn't been for the fact that he wanted to hear the information as bluntly-put as possible. "I don't care," he added with a dignified shrug. His eyes darkened, however, and for a brief moment Blaine wondered if it was pain or skepticism that clouded them in that moment. He blinked a second later, and they were back to their normal hue, unwavering, unaffected. "I just don't want some psycho's crap on my hands."

"So you're doing this to clear your conscience," Blaine prompted.

Karofsky jerked his head in a nod. "This isn't because I like you glee club idiots or anything," he added firmly. "I just don't want to be involved in this. In any way."

"You're involved," Kurt informed ruefully. "No matter what happens next, you can't turn your back on this, Dave."

Karofsky reached up an exasperated hand as though to cover his face before shaking his head sharply. "No. I won't be involved. That's the whole point of talking to you two: I'm not going to go to any damn cops telling them that I know who set the fire."

"Why not?" Blaine asked innocently.

"Because, fairy, some crowds are a little less forgiving than others to be involved in," Karofsky snapped.

"Call him a fairy again and I'm calling the police, no questions asked," Kurt said, very seriously.

Karofsky stared them both down, sparing a long glance at Blaine, before rolling his eyes. "Fine," he bit out. "But I'm not going to be involved in this stupid investigation. It's your problem, not mine."

"If Jeremy Bletcher is responsible, then this definitely isn't just our problem," Blaine pointed out. "We know about you, Karofsky, and I can tell you right now that just because I was his first target doesn't mean he can't hold prejudices against everyone."

"He doesn't know," Karofsky spat. "And if either of you tell I'll--" He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth, visibly restraining himself. "No one else knows," he said at last in a deadened voice. "I, unlike you two, am not in any danger."

"You're wrong," Blaine said, shaking his head, "and eventually, the truth will get out, Dave, and then--"

"Do not call me that," he snarled.

Blaine relented, barely resisting the urge to point out that he hadn't minded when Kurt said it. Of course. I'm just the annoying prep boy who comes in and tries to fix everything. "Fine. Karofsky. The truth will get out, and if you don't find the right group now when there's still a chance, you're going to find yourself in way over your head."

Karofsky looked at him with deep, unblinking eyes. "You know nothing, prep boy," he said darkly.

"I know a hell of a lot more than you think, jock," Blaine rebuffed smoothly.

If he had announced that he was king of the universe, Karofsky could not have looked more startled. Kurt was looking mildly surprised, too, but he refrained from letting it show other than a slight arch of his eyebrow.

"You just . . ." Karofsky began, but Blaine didn't let him finish.

"I wasn't always a prep boy, Karofsky. I know what you're talking about, so don't pretend that I can't understand why this is so difficult for you. But it doesn't make excuses. If you want to make it out of this thing alive, you'd really better reconsider where your allegiances lie, otherwise you're going to get hurt."

"Not if no one finds out," Karofsky snapped.

Blaine and Kurt exchanged a look and he practically growled at them. "You two were a mistake," he said.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Karofsky," Blaine said with a shrug. "Someday, you'll get drunk, and say or do something that you didn't mean to, and it'll just slip out and before you know it. . . ." He spread his hands in a mock Look at the hell you've created for yourself way. "At any rate, you can't just back out of this. We need to let the investigators know about Bletcher, and since your our source. . . ." He let the sentence trail off importantly.

Karofsky's gaze shifted to the coffee shop's other patrons, seemingly desperate for an intervention. At last he sighed deeply and shook his head, laying both hands on the table.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "But no one else can know that I'm involved."

Because secrecy always lasts long, Blaine thought, mentally rolling his eyes as he nodded. He knew that it was next to impossible Karofsky's involvement would remain under the radar for long, but he could at least soothe some of his concerns by saying that he wouldn't do anything to deliberately expose him.

"Then we're settled," Kurt said, his voice soft and decisive. "Jeremy Bletcher set the chemistry lab fire."

Karofsky nodded once stiffly. "Don't go parading the word around, though," he warned. "Jeremy . . . he won't take it lightly if someone finds out about this. Other than his friends," he added, and Blaine saw his nose wrinkle briefly before his face smoothed over. "Deal?"

"Deal," Blaine said, and "Deal," Kurt echoed.

* * *

"There he is," Kurt said musingly, circling the name lightly. "Jeremy Bletcher."

Blaine looked over Kurt's shoulder and saw what he was writing on, shaking his head slightly. "You were right," he said. "He made it on your top five suspects' list."

"Yes, but I couldn't have narrowed it down," Kurt pointed it out, lightly crossing out the other names. He paused at Dave Karofsky and wrote a question mark beside it instead. Blaine noticed and silently agreed: Karofsky may have tipped them off but that definitely didn't mean that there wasn't the possibility that Karofsky was lying and there was someone else.

Still, they had gone to the police and Karofsky had given his statement to the investigators, and now hopefully they were pursuing the thread until they turned up a positive or negative dead end.

Blaine was definitely keeping his fingers crossed for the former, but he didn't know. With so little evidence to convict him, it was hard to say that Jeremy Bletcher wasn't just an innocent bystander that Karofsky was building up to hide his own or someone else's guilt.

Sitting down beside Kurt on the couch, he asked mildly, "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

He had seen how anxious Kurt had been after their meeting with Karofsky, and if Blaine was honest with himself he was worried about Monday, too. Jeremy Bletcher, if he was who Karofsky said, didn't sound like the kind of person Blaine wanted roaming freely at McKinley. A slushy to the face was downright tame compared to being locked in a basement underneath a burning chemistry lab.

"Maybe," Kurt said elusively, leaning against Blaine's side a little. "I just wish they'd have caught whoever did it by now," he grumbled.

"I know. And I'd definitely prefer it to the alternative."

Kurt shivered. Blaine wished he could take his hand, but unfortunately his right side was pressed against Kurt and he knew that Kurt wouldn't want to touch the burn. And frankly, the burn was sensitive enough on its own. Draping his arm around his waist instead, Blaine sat in companionable silence, glancing over the notebook still balanced on Kurt's knees.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "Nine people. How'd you narrow it down to five?"

Kurt shrugged a little. "They appeared two places at once at times," he said. Blaine raised his eyebrows slightly, impressed. "The other four didn't, but those five did, and according to my knowledge you can't be in two places at once."

"No," Blaine agreed. "You can't."

A pause. Then: "How'd Karofsky appear twice? I didn't think he was even at school," Blaine said.

"He wasn't," Kurt said simply, "but I figured given the past history. . . ."

It never hurts to be cautious, Blaine finished.

And then nearly laughed at the irony. Coming from the one who plowed through a chemical fire to escape?

Still, there was no reason to eliminate Karofsky's name yet, so Blaine approved Kurt's suspicion.

"We'll figure it out," he said, confident and assured.

Kurt curled his hand around Blaine's burned one, loose and warm, just close enough that they were intertwined without aggravating the burn. The brief moment of surprise quickly passed Blaine as he held Kurt's hand lightly, willing to give the comfort and reassurance Kurt craved right now.

"Hopefully," Kurt said softly.

And they sat like that, looking over Kurt's list, silently wondering what tomorrow would bring.


	15. Chapter 15

Walking back through the doors of McKinley High on Monday was oddly normal. There wasn't any immediate evidence that a fire had taken place there at all: the chemistry labs were on the other side of the building closer to the back entrance and the football field. Instead of panic, there was relative peace: the jocks were congregated in their usual groups along the hallways, the vast majority of the nameless McKinley attendees clogged the main arteries of the school, and the remaining geeks and outcasts held their posts dutifully in the farthest corners of existence.

Kurt looked around, half-expecting the fire alarm to ring again.

"What're you waiting for?" Blaine asked, casually nudging his shoulder in passing. Although the situation was critical after Karofsky's revelation and the break-in to Figgins' office, Blaine was one of those people that seemed incapable of taking in the enormity of a situation for more than a day at a time. Case-in-point: he still hadn't entertained any further discussion of the arrangement with his parents. Presumably, he would drive back home to Westerville and assess the situation this afternoon. That was, of course, given that nothing went wrong today and delayed him.

Stop it, Kurt chastised himself. Nothing's going to go wrong.

Blaine was already halfway down the hall, forcing Kurt to make a decision or look awkward standing alone in the entrance. He chose to follow, albeit reluctantly, and leaned against the adjacent locker as Blaine opened his own and sorted through his books.

"This is so weird," Kurt muttered, unable to help himself.

"What's weird?" Blaine asked, tucking his history and calculus books under one arm. "The fact that it's Monday?"

"No. The fact that everyone's so . . . calm."

Blaine bobbed his head in a nod. "Generally speaking, yes." He tilted his gaze pointedly towards a frenetic-looking Jacob Ben Israel, who was currently in hot pursuit of Tina and Mike.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "He's always wired. I'm talking about everyone else. Why are they so . . . quiet?"

Blaine shrugged, linking arms with him casually. Kurt quickly disentangled himself, meeting Blaine's mildly hurt look with a serious one. "You have got to be careful. This isn't Dalton, you know," he hissed. "What if . . . oh my God."

"What?" Blaine asked.

Kurt grabbed his shoulders and turned him so he could see the phenomenon standing in the doorway. Most of McKinley regarded it with disinterest and quickly looked away, but neither Kurt nor Blaine could stop staring once they saw it.

"Puck? Are you wearing Kevlar?"

"Damn straight I am," Puck said, grinning, as he ran a hand impressively over his Mohawk. "I look so freakin' badass in this thing I could be a nun and chicks would dig me."

"They let you wear Kevlar here?" Blaine asked, intrigued.

Kurt swatted a hand at him, narrowly missing his head as Blaine ducked. "Chill, dudes. I don't think anything's going to happen. I'm just pleasing the ladies." He smirked at a pair of passing girls who were staring at him in evident amazement. Kurt personally thought that they looked more concerned than impressed, but it had nevertheless caught their attention.

"Puck, you're insane," he said simply, "and I really hope that isn't necessary."

"Why, good morning, fairies," Azimio said, right on schedule. "I missed you two over the weekend."

"Hi, Azimio," Blaine said, his voice light as always. "Brought something?"

"Couple of raspberry slushies for a couple of queers," Azimio replied. "Though I could share with General Queer, here."

Queer, here? Oh, will the mediocrity never end. . . .

"Dude, eff off," Puck said, chest swelling in a passable imitation of Marcus's. (No one could match Mercedes' boyfriend as far as intimidation-on-first-sight went, but Puck in Kevlar and dark sunglasses came respectably close.) "Slushies are yesterday's news."

"I like revisiting the classics," Azimio said.

"I thought I heard a familiar voice," Marcus rumbled, appearing behind Azimio and grabbing the slushies. "I'm afraid you got my order wrong, sir, because I don't like raspberry."

Kurt could almost see the rage boiling off Azimio as he whirled around to confront Marcus, only to receive a double-slushy to the face. "Thank you for your consideration, though," Marcus said, tossing both empty cups in a nearby bin.

Kurt gaped. Puck punched Marcus' shoulder with a "Dude, you are definitely in!" and Blaine simply looked apologetic as he watched Azimio storm off.

Oh, don't feel sorry for him, Kurt thought, unable to suppress a small grin at the thought of exacting revenge on Azimio for once. He doesn't need any sympathy for this one.

"Guys, did you really just slushy Azimio?" Mr. Schue asked, carrying a thick pile of folders and looking slightly harassed.

"Dude, that guy's had it coming since three years ago," Puck said, rolling his eyes. "He totally deserved it."

"And I don't know what you mean by 'slushying,'" Marcus added. "I was just returning that gentleman's favor from before."

"Well, just try not to do it in my sight, okay? Figgins says the school board's had to crack down a lot harder on us teachers after the fire--" he glanced apologetically at Kurt and Blaine, both of whom merely exchanged glances before looking back, "and one of the rules is that if we see any harassment, we have to report it. Slushying counts."

"This one's repayment," Marcus said.

"Totally," Puck agreed.

Mr. Schue ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes briefly. "All right. I didn't see anything. Don't let me see anything, either, okay?"

"Why couldn't you have cracked down like this before when we were the ones getting slushied?" Puck demanded.

Mr. Schue shrugged, shaking his head. "I'll explain during glee club, okay? I've got to run -- I'm already behind--"

"Hold up, Mr. Schue," Marcus said, effectively barring his path through sheer mass. "We just want to know why the policy's so much stricter, now, that's all."

"It's stricter because they still haven't caught the person who set the fire," Mr. Schue said in a terse voice, low and inaudible to the passing students. "Things will cool down once we've apprehended someone, but until then, we're playing it safe and keeping everyone mellow."

"And if something does break out?" Blaine asked, keeping his voice light and conversational.

"Then we're prepared to deal with it," Mr. Schue said firmly. "Better than we did last time."

I seriously doubt that, Kurt thought, but at least the faculty had had a week to potentially earn some enlightenment about safety policies and what-not-to-do-during-an-emergency. As long as no one gets hurt. . . .

"You don't suppose someone's going to pull something again, do you?" Marcus asked, his voice deeper as he kept it restricted to their group.

Mr. Schue shrugged again, looking slightly uncomfortable. "We've done everything we can to make sure that nothing's going to happen," he said.

Which is not nearly enough to be comforting, Kurt silently completed.

Marcus let Mr. Schue bustle off, Puck sashaying away in the opposite direction, doubtlessly off to impress some of the more interested cheerleaders.

"I'm not sure if I feel more reassured or less now that I've heard that," Blaine said in a musing voice.

"Why feel less?" Kurt asked, curious.

Blaine shrugged. "I guess the thought of our only defense against a second attack being Schuester and people like Figgins isn't particularly reassuring."

A second attack.

The words felt eerily forewarning in Kurt's mind, ringing with a certain solidarity that didn't mean they might happen but would. He refused to consider it too deeply, though, blaming it on his paranoia.

No one in their right mind would attack in broad daylight, he assured himself. Blaine's not going to run off to look for Brittany, either, and everyone else in glee knows to be careful.

We're going to be fine. Nothing's going to happen.

Kurt walked into the choir room, and groaned aloud.

"Nothing, except someone toilet papering our room," he grumbled, because somehow even his diva-side could still be irritated at juvenile pranks even when his rational side was on high alert.

* * *

"This is just wrong," Mercedes said, shaking her head at the mess of paper around the room. "Whoever the hell did this, I'm going to cut them if I find out."

"You probably won't," Kurt said dryly, using a spare folder to lift some toilet paper off the piano. "This is ridiculous. What is the point of toilet papering the choir room? 'Oh, look at me, I'm so cool because I can use common bathroom appliances to cover furniture!'"

Blaine stepped up and placed a soothing hand on Kurt's arm, feeling him relax a little involuntarily. "It's okay," he said quietly, out of earshot of the others, knowing that Kurt's agitation was largely a product of nerves.

"I just can't believe someone would do this," Mercedes continued, using a long broom to sweep up a massive pile of the toilet paper.

"Do we get to jump in that now?" Brittany asked, looking at the growing mountain of white in the middle of the room. "I totally want the first jump."

"What happened in here?" Schuester asked, gaping, as he ducked underneath a hanging strand of toilet paper. "Oh, guys. . ." he said, sympathetic and annoyed on their behalf. "I'll let Figgins know," he said, already turning to go make the announcement.

"Don't worry, Mr. Schue," Mercedes said, sweeping another large scoop of the toilet paper into the middle. "It's not like anyone did anything to hurt us."

"Yes, but this still counts as harassment," Schuester said, "and we're now obligated to report all cases of harassment."

"I could keep a folder," Rachel said at once, holding up a teal-colored binder and beaming. She was definitely in her element, Blaine thought, collecting more ideas by the hour for her probably soon-to-be-published bestseller. Well, he thought fairly, it might not be a bestseller, but she definitely looks like she could be publishing soon.

The rest of the glee club was alternately helping pull down toilet paper from the higher reaches of the room or, in Artie's case, balling up the masses Finn handed down and leaving them on the floor for Mercedes to sweep up. Three of them had effectively cleared off one full corner of the room, but with three-quarters to go the choir room definitely wasn't a sight for sore eyes.

"Well, well, well, already making your cozy little flee-infested nests again?" Coach Sylvester said, stepping delicately into the choir room and looking around appraisingly.

"Aren't you supposed to be monitoring your Cheerios?" Schuester asked, exasperated.

"I have left them in the capable hands of my head cheerleader," Coach Sylvester said.

"And you don't think that's at all dangerous in the current climate?"

"William, breathing is dangerous in the current climate, if only because this massive infestation of glee jubilee is giving me a migraine."

"Sue--"

Coach Sylvester vanished through the door before Schuester could respond, however, and Blaine saw him sigh in irritation before he turned to the group at large and said, "All right. Good job with clean up, guys, and I'll be right back." He disappeared as well, leaving the rest of the glee clubbers to handle the room.

"I wish I had this much toilet paper," Brittany reflected sadly, "but I left the window in my room open once and a family of raccoons made a nest out of ours. Then they gave each other rabies."

"You know, you could just use a vacuum," Blaine told Mercedes, "it would make things go faster."

"Finn broke the vacuum last year," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes to look at Finn, who mumbled something in response. "So we have to do this manually." She handed him the broom, moving over to help Finn pull down the toilet paper from the upper reaches of the room, and Blaine casually switched his grip to the left, unburned hand and started looping around the room.

"You know," he said, sidling over to Kurt with a sizable chunk of toilet paper in front of his broom, "you don't have to look like someone killed your puppy. It's just toilet paper."

Kurt lifted a string of toilet paper with the spare folder and let it fall to the floor. Blaine shoved the pile he had into Mount Toilet Paper and made a sweep back around for the extra strand, nudging Kurt's shoulder lightly. "Don't be quiet. It makes me think I did something wrong."

Kurt said nothing, unless sighing and folding his arms was an indication that Blaine needed to stop talking, which he did. He continued to circle the room slowly, growing comfortable enough using his left hand that he was fairly proficient by the time Mount TP was complete.

"Awesome," Brittany said, clapping her hands together and hopping up.

"No," Mercedes said, grabbing her around the middle before she could make the leap from chair to Mount TP. "It's too flimsy. You'd just hit the floor."

"That's what the toilet paper's for," Brittany corrected. "You don't hit the floor."

"Trust her on this one, Brittany," Artie said, wheeling closer before pausing to unravel a strand from his wheels. "It's not that fun when it's toilet paper."

Looking put out, Brittany sat back down on her chair. Rachel, on the other hand, looked more enlivened than ever, writing frantically in her notebook, never once looking up.

"You know, you could be helping, Berry," Mercedes said loudly even though the work was done.

Rachel waved a shushing hand in her direction. "I'm planning," she quipped.

"She's planning," Mercedes mimicked to Mike, who had been de-papering the piano with Tina. "Honestly, when is that girl ever not planning?"

"I would like you guys to know that this is not a political protest to your organization," a new voice sniffed.

Blaine turned, broom in hand, and saw Sugar Motta standing in the doorway, looking extremely irritated and like nothing more than a kicked dachshund. "Despite my best efforts to show you the error of your ways, you have still refused to let me join your club," she said. Then, in a mock sweet tone: "You just don't recognize talent when you see it, because you've all been scraping the gutters for years. Sorry. Asperger's."

Wow. I already don't like her, Blaine thought, which was impressive, since he tended to like people unless they proved him wrong.

Sugar Motta was the image of righteous indignation, however, as she stood surveying the newly-cleaned choir room (excluding Mount TP in the middle, of course). Then, shaking her head haughtily, she said, "I hope you guys realize just how much you need me soon," and disappeared.

There was silence for several moments, the only noise Rachel's pen scratching noisily on her binder, before at last Mercedes said in the same mock sweet tone, "Well, at least I know which bitch to cut now for TP'ing our room."

* * *

"Well, now that we've cleared that out," Mr. Schue said, clasping his hands together, "we've got a lot to talk about."

They had removed Mount TP courtesy of Brad finding some garbage bags and holding them open while Finn shoved the toilet paper inside. It took six large bags to contain the mess, but at last Mount TP was no more, and the remainder of the glee club was seated in their usual places.

"First, we need to discuss invitationals. Those are nine days, guys, and I hate to say it but we haven't even started preparing for it."

"I have," Rachel said at once, holding up a light-pink binder proudly. "I even have possible setlists designed that would accommodate all of our vocal needs."

"That's . . . great, Rachel," Mr. Schue said, looking slightly dazed at the sudden intrusion, before shaking his head and catching his thread once more. "That's actually the second thing on our agenda: I know some of you expressed an interest in having a president--" Rachel sat up in her seat pointedly; Kurt scowled "--but I would like to say that for right now, we have more important matters to handle," he finished.

I don't know who finally knocked some sense into you, Kurt thought, but they deserve a medal.

"Third: due to the new 'safety precautions,' no clubs are being held after school, so glee club practice is cancelled until further notice."

At once, Rachel's hand shot in the air, and she was already saying, "But Mr. Schue--" before he managed to stop her.

"It's the school policy, and until further notice, we're going to enforce it. And sorry, guys, but that includes sports and other extracurricular activities."

"What the hell?" Puck burst out. "We've got our first game in four days and they expect us not to practice at all?"

"I guess you'll just have to manage by practicing at home and in gym," Mr. Schue said, shrugging. "I didn't make the rules, but I am going to enforce them, because that's the fourth thing I wanted to talk about: the fire."

The glee club fell silent, Puck sinking back into his seat and Rachel seeming to deflate somewhat, even while her intent expression remained in place. Everyone else was somber, subdued.

Brittany raised her hand.

Mr. Schue, raising his eyebrows, asked, "Yes, Brittany?"

"Blaine got us out," she said promptly. "So we don't have to worry, since he's like . . . Superman now."

Blaine blushed a little at the unexpected praise. Mr. Schue looked at Blaine, his expression mixed. "I owe you three a very sincere apology," he said at last, looking at Brittany and Mercedes in turn. "What I did was wrong that day, and it could have . . . it could have resulted in some seriously unpleasant consequences."

Not the least of which that they could have died, Kurt piped in silently.

"From now on, we're looking out for each other. If anyone has any problems and you know about it, I expect you to do something: help them, or come to me, or whoever you have to get things resolved. We've shown that we can work together as a team before, but now more than ever we need to be a team. So if anything happens . . . I need you guys to have each other's backs. And come to me if you need something. I'm not going to neglect my duty to you guys like that again."

Thank you, Kurt thought and was surprised that it didn't sound sarcastic, even in his thoughts. He had been certain that he couldn't forgive Mr. Schue's negligence so easily, but he could admit that he was grateful that at least he recognized that there was a serious problem with his actions and regretted them. After all, you're our teacher. You should have been right on top of this.

"The next few days are going to be strange while we're still getting this all sorted out," Mr. Schue went on. "And for now, our biggest goal is that everyone's okay. Nothing overrules safety anymore, and I'm truly sorry to say that anything ever did. Especially for the reasons that it was. We're keeping a very close eye on things, but you guys are our best bet for making sure that everything runs smoothly. If you hear anything or see anything suspicious, let me or another teacher know. Okay?"

Kurt inclined his head while the rest of the class nodded.

"Now, I know we only have a little time left, but--"

The power went out.

* * *

"Finn Hudson, that better have been you," Mercedes' voice said from somewhere in the center of the room.

Blaine's heart rate was already escalating, and he could practically feel Kurt shaking beside him. Or maybe that was him. Getting slowly to his feet, instinctively wanting to face danger standing up, he ventured cautiously down the rows until he was on ground level. The choir room was pitch black: there were no windows, and Schuester had shut the door behind him when he stepped inside, leaving only a slim panel of light from beyond that was weak sunlight.

"All right, guys, calm down," Schuester said in a slow, calming tone. "I'm sure this is just--"

The lights flickered back on.

"A temporary power outage," Schuester finished.

It was clear from the general atmosphere, however, that everyone was shaken up. Brittany sidled casually over to Blaine and hugged him, which he supposed was as close to being openly afraid as she could be. He hugged her back briefly before gently disentangling himself, needing to know what had happened.

"Well," Puck said, but his voice was low and wary as well, "good thing I wore Kevlar today."

"It's nothing that serious," Schuester said, trying and failing to sound reassuring. "Just relax, guys."

No one relaxed or inched closer to their seats, still huddled in the middle of the floor. Kurt's hand slipped into Blaine's left and gave it a hard squeeze. Blaine gripped it back.

"We can't just stand around," Finn said at last, speaking slowly and carefully. "Someone should go ask Figgins what that was about."

"I'll go," Puck said at once, inflating his chest to show off the Kevlar.

"Same," Mike said. He shrugged when Mr. Schue cast him a questioning look. "This is looking out for each other, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Finn agreed, clasping Puck hand on the shoulder with a hand. "Of course. We'll be back soon. Promise." Rachel looked at him worriedly, seeming torn.

"Okay," Schuester said simply, nodding once, "be back soon."

The three guys opened the door and walked out, disappearing around the corner.

* * *

"Everything's okay," Finn said, reappearing in the doorway five minutes later, Puck and Mike in tow. "One of the janitors accidentally knocked the power out. They fixed it."

Kurt breathed somewhat easier, even if his terror hadn't really been subdued yet. He knew that it was ridiculous to think that the same person who had set the chemistry lab on fire and broken into Figgins' office could knock out the power but . . . well, he could.

Seemingly thinking along the same lines of thought, Rachel flung herself at Finn and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle. "Hey, it's fine," he said. "Nothing's wrong. Just someone knocking out the power."

The bell rang while they were still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that it was a completely innocent gesture, Kurt slipping his hand into Blaine's again without thought as he got up.

Blaine winced and withdrew. Surprised, Kurt looked at him, only to see him flexing his bad hand gingerly. "Sorry," he said, blushing.

Blaine shrugged. "It's fine," he said, offering it back slightly more tentatively. Kurt grasped it, barely touching the burn, and felt Blaine relax a little too.

We're going to be okay, he thought. Everything's fine.

Except Blaine had history next, and Kurt had French.

Everything's going to be fine. It has to be.

* * *

It was the longest hour and twenty minutes of Kurt's life, exempting the nine minutes when Blaine, Brittany, and Mercedes had been escaping from the chemistry lab. He could barely form coherent sentences in English when called upon, let alone French, and blundered through half of the lesson before his teacher stopped calling on him and referred to other, less worried students for answers.

Of course, he thought bitterly. They don't have to worry because it's not their boyfriend that was locked in a basement underneath a burning room.

It was impossible for him to focus, even though he knew that the material was important for a quiz they were apparently having on Wednesday (Kurt was already practically fluent in French, anyway), and all but leapt for the door when the bell rang again, desperate to make sure that Blaine was okay and he hadn't been locked in some basement in the meantime and--

Mr. Schue bumped into him first, looking bewildered. "Hey, Kurt," he greeted at the exact same moment the fire alarm rang.

No, Kurt thought, already pulling out his phone and hitting call without thought that he was right in front of a teacher and technically not supposed to do that.

And then he swore, actually swore, because Blaine's phone was still at his parents' house, and Blaine wasn't with Brittany or Mercedes or anyone during second period.

Damn it, Blaine, be safe, he prayed, which was an odd prayer at best but perhaps the most heartfelt one he'd ever offered.

The torrent of people fleeing swept him up and before he consciously registered it he was standing on the football field again. Figgins was already speaking rapidly into a phone with the fire department, while teachers milled about, frantically talking.

Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Kurt chanted, glancing around anxiously.

Finn stumbled by. "Have you seen Blaine?" Kurt demanded, grabbing his arm and somehow managing to halt his reckless tread forward.

Finn shook his head. "Who do you think I was looking for?" he said before turning on his heel.

"Where are you going?" Kurt cried, because no, he didn't want Blaine to die but what was Finn doing?

"Sticking together, remember?" Finn shouted back and disappeared back inside the empty doorway.

Kurt swore and raced after him.

"This isn't the time to be courageous, Finn!" Kurt screamed, but Finn Hudson, the absolute idiot, wasn't even listening anymore.

So Kurt did the only thing he could: he followed.

* * *

Kurt might have actually thought this was amusing if it wasn't reality, because running after your stepbrother who was looking for your boyfriend shouting at him that he wasn't doing anyone a favor getting himself in trouble was comically hypocritical. And Kurt usually denounced hypocrisy like the plague, but today, he didn't even care, especially when he saw how deserted the halls were. "Where the hell did you say history was?" Finn asked before a thin thread of smoke appeared at the end of the hall.

Kurt actually overtook him then but Finn was quickly in front again, long legs propelling him forward.

They sprinted straight into a darting shape, Finn hitting the unfortunate runner so hard that he actually bounced back three feet before hitting the wall and dropping to the floor limply.

"Shit," Finn said, momentarily dazed by the involuntary blow, "was that the guy you were talking about?"

Kurt had no idea what Jeremy Bletcher looked like, but given that this definitely wasn't Karofsky, he had to assume that it was Bletcher or someone else. Finn was already moving deeper, however, following the hallway, and Kurt realized with a sudden cold chill that the smoke was thicker here but not centralized around a fire.

There was a crashing noise ahead and Kurt realized with a start that Finn had plowed right through the door.

Finn, you idiot, people break their shoulders trying that!

But apparently Finn was channeling adrenaline because he plowed through cleanly, and my, wasn't there all the smoke.

Oh my God, Kurt thought, his instinct jarringly telling him to run away even as momentum propelled him forward, and in seconds he was inside the inferno.

* * *

"God dammit, I can't see a thing!" Finn swore before crashing loudly to the floor. "Don't need to," he wheezed a moment later, and there was a heavy dragging sound that made Kurt want to retch.

Oh God, oh God, he thought, before Finn shoved him so forcefully backwards he fell on his back and mostly into the open hallway. He grunted, knowing that he would have a bruise from that, and scrambled out of the way on all fours as Finn came barreling through. "Found him," he said, coughing hard.

Blaine groaned, eyes shut, clawing at his head. "M'head. . . ."

"I'll go get that guy," Finn panted, pointing down the hall, and somehow climbed to his feet and wobbled down the hallway.

"Where's the rest of the class? Are they okay?" Kurt asked, and he would have been hyperventilating if he didn't feel like there was enough smoke in his lungs to give him lung cancer on the spot.

Blaine coughed hard and managed a thin, "Fine," before curling up, hands gripping his hair tightly. He groaned.

"What happened? Are you okay?" he asked quickly.

Of course he's not okay!

Blaine shook his head feebly and didn't answer.

A suited up fireman appeared then, jogging nimbly down the hallway and pausing to look at him and Blaine. "Can either of you walk?" he asked, crouching down beside them and offering an arm.

Kurt took it, dragging himself to his knees, and coughed, "I don't think he can."

"I've got two people at three hundred, over," the fireman said, speaking into a radio.

Kurt didn't even listen to the rest of the conversation, dazed and amazed.

We caught Bletcher, he thought. It's over.

And then everything went black.

* * *

"Holy shit, kid," was the voice that greeted him.

Kurt sat up slowly, feeling thickly gloved hands supporting his back as he did so, and squinted at his surroundings.

"You're a regular musketeer, you know that?" the fireman was saying, one hand still keeping him propped up. (Kurt was grateful for it; he doubted he could have stayed upright otherwise.)

"What happened?" he croaked, his voice completely shot by the smoke. He coughed and shook his head, trying to clear it, and the fireman casually readjusted a face mask over his mouth and nose. Kurt inhaled deeply in relief, taking in the pure, fresh oxygen and silently thinking, I am never taking this for granted again.

"You are one hell of a lucky kid," the fireman went on, shaking his head and standing beside him. Kurt was sitting on a gurney, he realized, the fireman watching the action around them with an almost envious expression. "Though I'm obligated to tell you never to do that again and that it's because it's incredibly dangerous. Seriously, sport, you could've been whipped by that."

"What?" Kurt croaked, because right now anything more than four words was too complicated to understand.

"I was saying you're lucky," the fireman elaborated. "Kid runs into something like that, doesn't have much of a chance. You didn't even get burned."

"Where're -- where're--?" Kurt tried to piece the words together, but his lungs were still protesting what felt like five gallons worth of solid smoke.

"Easy, kid. They're okay. We've got your friends all out, and the department's working on the kid found with the arson in the hall."

They caught him, Kurt's muddled brain realized, an immense relief coursing through him.

"That was pretty badass," a new voice said, and Kurt looked up slowly at Puck, who had his Kevlar chest puffed out. "I might even acknowledge you when I walk by in the halls from now on."

"Thanks," Kurt said weakly, and if ever there was a moment to sound dry it was now. "Where's . . . ?" He coughed, frustrated at himself, and forced out, "B?"

"B?"

"He means Blaine," Mercedes stepped in, both figuratively and literally. "Hi, boo. He's okay."

"Where--?"

Another wracking cough.

"Dammit," Kurt rasped in frustration.

"Holy shit, Kurt Hummel swore," Puck said.

Kurt rolled his eyes eloquently and didn't respond.

"Finn?" he managed at last.

"He's fine too," Mercedes assured. "He keeps saying that he's fine and wants to see you, actually, so I'd say he's better than fine."

"Glad," Kurt rasped.

"This wasn't exactly the plan for how we were going to spend the day," Mercedes pointed out dryly. "But I suppose it's better to get the drama out of the way beforehand. Although Berry hasn't had her say in it yet. She's still harassing her boyfriend."

Finn's okay. Blaine's okay.

They're okay.

"I--I'm good," Kurt said at last, his voice marginally stronger, and he gestured wearily at the mask.

"Protocol, kid," the fireman said, his hand unwavering. "I'll let you off when the chief gives the okay. For now, just relax and enjoy."

Vexed but unable to do anything about it, Kurt looked at Mercedes and asked, as clearly as he could, "How's Blaine?"

"Well, Finn's up and talking," Mercedes said in a musing tone, looking over somewhere Kurt couldn't see and presumably watching Finn 'up and talking.'

Kurt's heart sank to his stomach.

"Blaine?" he rasped.

Mercedes sighed, which did nothing for his nerves. "He's . . . he'll be okay, boo."

Will be. Will be.

I want him okay now, Kurt's small, childish side protested.

"Your dad's on his way," Mercedes added, trying to lighten the mood. "He should be here any minute."

I don't want my dad. I want Blaine.

"Carole knows, too, and she's about twenty minutes behind your dad."

I don't want Carole. I don't want anyone but Blaine.

"Boo, you're really pale. What's wrong? Do you feel sick?"

"Yes," Kurt whispered honestly. Not in the I'm-about-to-vomit way, or maybe it was that, given the way his stomach clenched and his throat felt tight and hot.

Blaine. Blaine.

"Are you gonna throw up?"

"No," Kurt said.

"Everything's okay," Mercedes said, putting her hand gently on his arm.

No. No, it's not.

"Blaine," he rasped.

"He'll be fine," Mercedes said, confident and soothing. Kurt didn't feel very comforted, however, although in all fairness to Mercedes he couldn't. Not without knowing that Blaine was okay now.

Blaine walked out last time. He was right there last time.

Where is he?

But no one seemed to have an answer. "He'll be okay." "He'll be fine." "He's going to be all right."

Jeremy Bletcher, I will kill you if he's not okay, Kurt vowed silently, letting the white noise fade out around him.


	16. Chapter 16

Blaine knew that something was wrong before his mind processed what the problem was. Some people described a feeling of dread as a symptom before they had a heart attack, an imminent sense that something was about to go wrong. He could feel his breathing quickening a little, barely audible, and his hands flex as he tried to instinctively sort out how he could be in any danger.

Everything seemed too proper, too ordinary for something disastrous to happen. The class was still present, a few dedicated students taking notes while the rest cruised. Mr. Rufus, the ancient history teacher, was still lecturing at the board, one arm balancing an open book. The entire room seemed normal from an objective perspective: a quick glance at the clock showed there were only a few minutes left of class.

Stop worrying, Blaine chastised himself, even as his heart rate insisted on accelerating. Instinct, if nothing else, was telling him that something was going to happen, but he didn't know what and he didn't know where.

Most likely here, Blaine's logic reasoned.

He looked around, attempting to be as nondescript as he could, trying to figure out what was going to happen.

And then his heart stopped as Mr. Rufus spoke: "Mr. Bletcher?"

"May I be excused? I need to use the restroom," Bletcher said, clutching his stomach in a passable imitation of sickness.

"Just sign out," Mr. Rufus said dismissively, already turning back to his discussion of the Enlightenment.

Enlightenment would be useful now, yes, Blaine quipped silently. He tucked his books inside the desk, keeping his hands free, wanting to be able to escape unhindered if he had to.

Already thinking about running, the cynical side of him mused. Does it never end?

Then the fire alarm started shrieking from beyond.

Mr. Rufus paused in bafflement, looking around as though expecting to see the source of the fire in front of him. Too late, Blaine thought bitterly, he probably just walked out.

"Meet on the football field," Mr. Rufus announced in his usual placid tones.

There was an immediate lunging movement for the door, a few glances cast back at him almost absentmindedly. I'm not standing near the target was plain in their expressions, and before Blaine knew it the classroom had spilled over into the hallway.

There's no smoke, he mused. Why no smoke?

Then something hit him in the back of the head, hard, and Blaine found his much more immediate concern simply staying conscious.

"You're looking rather green," a new voice said quietly, almost mockingly solicitous, before a hand grabbed his upper arm and steered him back into the classroom. In a parody of protocol, the person shut the door behind him and locked it. Mr. Rufus would only know that the last person out had shut it; he wouldn't know that anyone was still inside.

No, Blaine thought, even as the person shoved him into a chair. He stumbled, groping for a semblance of control, and somehow managed to land in the seat and not on the floor.

"Now," the same voice said, an ordinary teenager's voice, not serpentine or vicious or low like the movies always portrayed them, "you stay there, or I'll hit you again."

Blaine's instinct was still sounding its own alarms, but his head hurt too much to oblige any of its demands, so instead of moving he slumped, letting his hands cradle his skull. He closed his eyes and heard several strange noises around him, a profuse smell of something thin and toxic breaking into his thoughts.

Then there was smoke and what seemed to be an eternity later, heat.

It's too hot for the heater to be on, Blaine protested sluggishly, his mind incapable of cooperating with instinct anymore. His head hurt.

Someone hauled him upright again, this time steering him over to a corner.

No.

For five seconds, instinct overrode his physically incapacitated body and he shoved the other person away, staggering into a wall. The smell of smoke was getting rapidly stronger as was the heat. He set a fire, he realized in a blistering moment of clarity before it vanished as his head throbbed achingly again.

"Well then," the person said, disappearing briefly from view as Blaine's vision flickered on him again, "you want to play that way, huh?"

Whatever weapon the person had used before had been exchanged, Blaine saw, in the brief half-second before impact. This looked more like a lacrosse stick pole, probably leftover by one of the joc--

Crack!

Blaine crumpled to the floor.

Amazingly, he was still conscious, if only just. He felt the person kick him towards the corner so that he was less conspicuous. Over the immense ringing in his ears, he thought he heard a door open and close. The heat and smoke seemed stronger than ever, now, overpowering, and he could barely register whether the sensitivity came from the splitting pain in his head or sheer magnitude of the flames.

He tried to move. His limbs wouldn't cooperate. He tried to speak, shout, anything. The smoke was already effectively smothering him, even if he could have forced out a coherent plea.

He tried to do something.

Instead, he waited, waited forever it seemed, to burn.

I'm dead, he mused through the blur of smoke and white noise in his mind.

I lost.

And then everything was a maelstrom of noise and color and heat, too intense to be picked apart individually.

* * *

"You're not serious."

Kurt was already functioning on less sleep than normal and still had a sore throat from smoke inhalation. He hadn't done anything since three o'clock except sit in a waiting room for the next four hours, waiting, waiting desperately for news.

In short, Kurt Hummel was not in a very hospitable mood. So when the nurse told him that, we're sorry, only parents or guardians are allowed, Kurt wanted to scream.

His parents aren't going to come here! They don't care if he dies!

Of course, he hadn't trumpeted that news around, even though part of him wanted to, just to see if it would finally mean Blaine's parents would realize how messed up they were. Blaine's parents were, to Kurt's knowledge, still in Westerville, despite a phone call sent out (the caller had apparently had to leave a message after three failed attempts to reach either of them on the home phone or their cell phones). They had to know what had happened by now -- they couldn't even plead ignorance this time around -- yet they were deliberately avoiding responding to it.

His only consolation was that Blaine was eighteen and legal. He could sign off whoever he wanted to visit, independent of his parents' decisions.

Yes, because he's going to be capable of signing anything after a traumatic head injury! Kurt thought sarcastically.

The entire situation had him gritting his teeth: if Brian and Emily walked in, they would be allowed to see their son at once, regardless of personal feelings. There Kurt was, trapped, unless someone with Anderson blood signed him off.

I could try one of his parents, he mused. Then, scowling: If they would actually come.

He wanted to scream at someone that they weren't coming, that at this rate no one would be allowed to see Blaine until he was walking out of the ward himself, and that it was so incredibly stupid that he had to be signed off at all.

I'm his boyfriend. Why can't I see him?

But those were the policies and official rules, and while the rational side of Kurt understood that he wouldn't want a complete stranger walking in to see him, he was feeling distinctly irritated that he was currently grouped in the same category as 'complete stranger.'

This is insane, he thought, storming back over to his seat and sitting down hard. We're never going to get to see him.

"How is he?" his dad asked, setting down his newspaper and looking at Kurt. He had been there for the past four hours as well, concerned mostly for Kurt during the first two and now mostly for Blaine as Kurt proved to be resoundingly healthy.

Kurt shook his head bitterly at the question. "The same," he said simply. They had been informed upon arrival that the trauma to Blaine's head was more severe than the average concussion given the deliberate nature of the impact (and utter lack of a helmet, as would have been present in a regular sporting accident). Consequently, he was being monitored and the rest of the Hudson-Hummels updated frequently, but the news always remained grimly unhelpful. Blaine was apparently conscious for the most part, which only made Kurt's heart ache more to see him.

There he is, probably confused and alone and in pain, and I can't see him just because I'm not his stupid parent.

His dad waited a moment, looking contemplative, before putting his hand reassuringly on Kurt's knee. "It'll be okay," he said.

Kurt didn't say anything.

Will it? he wondered, half-bitter, half-musing. Will it really? How can Blaine be okay after this? What if he has amnesia? What if he doesn't remember any of this?

What if he doesn't remember me?

Kurt shivered a little, because the doctors had said that it was hard to tell right now the degree -- if any -- brain damage there was, and thus consequent complications that might follow.

Please be okay, he pleaded silently, his fuming tamed by his worry. Blaine, you have to be okay.

* * *

At around eight o'clock, Brittany stepped into the waiting room, looking baffled. "Where's Blaine?" she asked, evidently confused. She had her plush unicorn, Kurt noted absently.

He forced himself to look up from where he was staring listlessly at the floor and shrugged. Part of him wanted to tell her the truth if only to see if someone would finally get the magnitude of just how wrong this whole situation was, but he knew that Brittany S. Pierce was not the person to try and explain Blaine's current condition to. So he cleared his throat and answered calmly instead.

"He's . . . he'll be okay," he said, half-hating himself for the words. He wanted to say that Blaine was already okay, but he knew he couldn't. Blaine was conscious, yes, but that wasn't much consolation. What if he's not okay? his unhelpfully practical side insisted. What if something's really wrong?

Brittany looked momentarily surprised before she sat down him beside and put her unicorn on his lap.

"Britt--" he began, not really in the mood for games. Then he noticed that this wasn't the cotton-candy-colored one. This one was similar, yes, but it was sprinkled with light blue instead of pink.

"Give that to Blaine," she said simply. "It'll make him okay."

Make him okay. Kurt's throat felt tight as he stroked the unicorn's soft forepaws lightly. If only you could.

He looked up at her again and managed a vacant smile. "Thanks, Britt."

She hugged him once before getting up. "The other unicorn will get lonely, so tell him he has to be okay soon so the unicorns can be together, okay?"

Kurt nodded, unable to speak.

"Keep him safe," Brittany said, walking back through the visitor's entrance. Kurt saw Santana standing there, her expression muted, a tiny smile on her face as she greeted Brittany. He thought he saw her say good job and couldn't help thinking, If this is their metaphor for Blaine and me, it's incredibly cheesy.

Then he pressed his forehead to the blue unicorn's. Please make him okay.

* * *

"Come on, boo. You need to get some sleep."

Kurt muttered something incoherent and swatted at the intruder, clutching the blue unicorn close. "No," he rasped. "Blaine. . . ."

The other person sighed. "He'll be fine, boo. But if you don't get some sleep you won't be able to see him when he's awake."

Kurt laughed bitterly, climbing to his feet and staring at Mercedes. "I won't be able to see him at this rate period," he said hoarsely.

"You will," Mercedes assured. "His parents--"

"Aren't coming," Kurt said with finality.

Mercedes was silent. "Well," she said at last, "we'll take it as it comes, okay? But for now, you should go home, Kurt. You're not doing yourself or him any favors losing sleep."

I can't sleep, Kurt thought. Not while he's like this.

The only other time he could ever remember feeling this restless and sick was when his dad had been in the hospital. Of course, he hadn't had as many people then that he could honestly turn to that he did now, but somehow, this seemed almost worse. Blaine's injuries were by no means minor, and there was every possibility that he could switch from recovering to regressing within hours. It was impossible for him to know what would happen to him now, so shortly after the incident, and Kurt knew that he couldn't shut his own mind off with those thoughts in his head.

Nevertheless, he let her tug him down the hall, watching the dim lights of the hospital hallways pass by with an absentmindedness that felt surreal. How is Blaine here? he wondered, looking at the closed doors around him. How did this happen?

But with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, Kurt knew.

He's here because he transferred.

For it all boiled down to that one simple decision: had Blaine stayed at Dalton, more likely than not, none of this would have happened.

Kurt didn't speak as Mercedes drove him home. He mumbled a good-bye and said something vaguely appreciative regarding her help. He walked up to the front door and waved listlessly back at her.

He stepped inside and instantly felt the absence of Blaine.

* * *

As predicted, Kurt couldn't sleep that night. He lay flat on his back, the little blue unicorn tucked underneath one arm, staring at the ceiling for hours. At one point, he heard his dad get up, probably restless as well. Then he heard footsteps retreating and knew that his dad had gone back to bed.

I wish I could do that, he thought bitterly. Or, better yet, that Blaine would be here, breaking one of his dad's rules and curled up against him instead of a soft-furred stuffed animal. It was definitely better than having nothing, but Kurt would have traded the world for Blaine's good health.

There were so many different ways that a head injury could ruin Blaine's future. Blaine might never be able to speak again, or walk again, or even think properly again. He could end up blind or unable to talk. He could lose a fair number of IQ points and go from being one of the most intelligent people Kurt had met to little more than a vegetable.

Blaine could, in short, be alive and also a number of unmentionable horrors. Kurt just wanted him to be Blaine.

Staring at his ceiling, dark and flat, Kurt wondered how he would survive if Blaine's injury proved to be crippling. He had left the lights in his room off, not wanting to attract unwanted sympathy. Most importantly, he didn't want anyone intruding on his broken little world right now. It was just him and Brittany's blue little unicorn now.

The silence felt profound.

If you didn't prod him to transfer so much, Kurt thought bitterly, he wouldn't be like this. He would be happy and safe and perfectly fine at Dalton.

He wouldn't have been slushied or called a fairy.

He wouldn't have been ignored by all the other guys because of who he was.

He wouldn't have been hurt.

That last made Kurt's throat tighten again, but he didn't feel like crying. He just felt . . . empty. There was no Blaine telling him that the sacrifices were worth it, that he was happy he was at McKinley, that he didn't want Kurt to worry about this. No Blaine with any sage advice about what they were supposed to do next. (Perhaps no Blaine to ever do that again, he reflected grimly.)

There was, in short, no Blaine to make everything better when it felt like everything was falling apart.

I can't do this, Kurt thought, holding the unicorn so close he worried he would burst a seam in it. I can't.

'Can't' wasn't an option, however. Blaine couldn't bounce back from this like he had so many things before.

Kurt didn't even know if Blaine would bounce back at all.

He has to, he decided. He has to.

* * *

Two days Kurt stayed during all visiting hours in the waiting room. All day Tuesday, all day Wednesday.

(School was cancelled for the week.)

But for Kurt, those first two days were the longest.

He sat in the waiting room for hours, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to change. Only for the good, he would always amend. He didn't think he could survive if something changed for the worse.

But nothing did.

Blaine's existence was utterly closed off from his own. They might as well not have been on the same planet anymore; in his current position, Blaine was untouchable.

For two full days, nothing changed. For two days, hour after hour piled listlessly up, with visits from every glee club member only somewhat breaking the monotony.

Artie dropped by for a couple of hours and played cards with him, showing him a few new games Kurt hadn't even known existed. It had been nice, for the first twenty minutes or so, until Kurt remembered doing the same with Blaine only a week ago. Then it hadn't been anything more than a distraction, something to keep Kurt's mind off the horrible reality around him.

Mercedes was a near constant presence, cajoling and supportive and generally optimistic. Kurt appreciated her efforts, but even after hours of pep talks, he didn't feel any more confident himself.

Mike and Tina came around at the same time to give him more empty words of consolation. Once more, he could logically appreciate the difficulty of their positions, but he didn't want any words unless they came from Blaine.

Puck gave him his Kevlar vest. Kurt didn't know exactly why, but he figured that it was a fairly big leap of generosity for someone who stole cheap napkins from restaurants.

Marcus gave him a grape slushy. "Blaine said it was his favorite flavor," he'd said with a shrug, when Kurt asked why.

Rachel gave him three dozen I'm Sorry cookies. Kurt didn't dare ask why.

Mr. Schue even chipped in, visiting to sit with him for long stretches at a time. Kurt avoided speaking to him mostly.

Brittany came back once each day to see if he still had the blue unicorn. She'd give him a hug, remind him to give it to Blaine, and walk out shortly after seeing that he did.

And then, on Thursday, the third day after the second attack, at 5:38 PM, Brian Anderson walked through the waiting room visitors' door.

Kurt almost couldn't believe his eyes when he first saw him, stiff-legged and a little thinner than he recalled. There was a moment when Kurt did a comical double-take, looking from Brian to the floor to Brian once more. He opened his mouth, half-prepared to demand why Blaine's father was only showing up now, but Brian was already on the move.

Brian only did two things while he was there. The first was that he walked over to the receptionist's desk, requested Blaine's papers, and received a clipboard in return after verifying that he was his father. After skimming the pages, he signed his name at the bottom.

And then, the second and last thing he did: he scribbled something else down and handed it back to the receptionist.

Then Brian Anderson left the waiting room at 5:43 PM without another word.

Kurt waited exactly three minutes before standing and wobbling over to the desk, unable to help the sudden hope welling inside him. He wouldn't have done it, his rational side told him fiercely, Brian hates you, he argued with you the last time you saw each other, why would he--

The receptionist smiled at him. "Kurt Hummel?" she asked.

He nodded shakily, still holding the blue unicorn tightly, disbelieving, desperate.

"Brian Anderson has verified your admittance," she said. "You just need to sign here and we can let you in."

With a shaky hand, Kurt scrawled his messiest signature ever into the appropriate spot and handed it back to her.

She called over one of the nurse's -- Kelly, it sounded like, but his mind was too focused on Blaine now to care -- who said something he couldn't hear over the noise of his own pulse racing.

Finn and his dad were both downstairs picking up some snacks at the hospital cafeteria with Carole. Kurt had insisted on staying behind, something which he now knew was an act of incredible coincidence or, perhaps, sheer luck.

But now, finally, he could see Blaine, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

"Hey, sweetie," the nurse said softly as she entered the room.

Blaine's head tilted slightly in their direction. He made a vaguely questioning noise and waited.

Kurt stared at him, unable to help himself. It was Blaine, yes, and if he ignored all the extra machinery (he pointedly ignored the IV in his left hand; Kurt loathed needles) he could almost fool himself that Blaine was completely fine. There was a black cloth draped over his eyes -- something about light sensitivity, he thought he remembered the nurse saying -- but it couldn't disguise the fact that this was Blaine.

On legs that barely wanted to support him, Kurt wobbled over and slipped his fingers into Blaine's hand.

Blaine made a startled noise in the back of his throat before slowly, so slowly it almost hurt Kurt to watch, gripping his hand back.

"You're okay," Kurt said softly, relief and concern clear in his voice. He laughed quietly, willing Blaine to believe the words, and said, "You're okay, B."

Blaine gave his fingers a faint squeeze in return. "Mmm," he hummed.

Kurt lifted the little blue unicorn and delicately put it on top of Blaine's chest. "This is from Brittany. It's a unicorn," he said, keeping his voice soft as he gently guided Blaine's burned hand to the unicorn.

Blaine's fingers splayed against it, flexing a tiny bit, stroking the fur. "Mmm," he repeated, thoughtfully petting the unicorn's back. "S'nice," he sighed, voice raspy.

Kurt smiled. "I'll tell her," he said. "Do you need anything?" The nurse was already looking over the machinery and checking the chart at the foot of his bed, but Kurt wasn't interested in any of that.

Blaine's head shook infinitesimally and gave his fingers another tiny squeeze.

"I'm glad you're okay," Kurt said, the warmth and solidarity beneath his fingers familiar. Blaine's okay, he thought. Granted, he wasn't okay okay. Blaine still had a fair road of recovery ahead of him, but he was . . . he was okay. Still Blaine.

That was all that mattered.

Blaine's lips quirked up in a small smile as he tilted his head a little more in Kurt's direction. "Yeah," he said thickly, "same."

* * *

"You don't have the unicorn," Carole said, sounding surprised.

Kurt shook his head, stepping out of the ward's main hallway and smiling at the Hudson-Hummels, all of whom were looking worried. It was almost ten o'clock at night: visiting hours were over for everyone but people staying overnight.

"Did something happen?" his dad prompted cautiously, when Kurt continued to simply stand there looking at them.

"He's okay," was all Kurt said, smiling slightly.

Blaine's alive. Blaine's okay.

We'll be okay.

And that night, Kurt slept a little easier without the blue unicorn.

* * *

The black bandanna around Blaine's eyes was still there for the next day. It was Saturday before the nurses deemed Blaine's sensitivity to light low enough that he could handle dim light without the bandanna, something that Kurt knew he was relieved by.

When Kurt walked in on Saturday morning, he was startled to see Blaine looking at him. He had a pair of dark sunglasses on but it was Blaine's gaze, not simply a blank overlay of black cloth.

"Hi," Blaine said softly, one hand resting lightly on the blue unicorn's back, a small smile on his face.

Kurt smiled back and sat down in the chair beside him. "Hi," he echoed lightly. "No more bandanna?"

"No," Blaine said. Then, with a slight grin, he mimed taking off the glasses and held up two fingers.

Kurt's eyebrows lifted. "Two days?"

Blaine nodded a tiny bit.

"I'm glad to hear you're doing so well," Kurt said honestly. Blaine hummed lightly in contentment and closed his eyes. "Although I'd much rather have you not in a hospital."

Blaine gave a tiny shrug.

"Can't help it," he rasped.

"I know. I just wish it didn't have to be this way."

"Mmhm," Blaine agreed. He winced slightly and draped one arm over his eyes, groaning a little.

"Headache?" Kurt asked sympathetically, reaching over to press the nurse call button.

"Mmm."

Blaine's hand gripped Kurt's weakly, something that the nurses had assured Kurt was expected with the sort of head trauma he had endured. He would be generally off for a few weeks, they warned, tiring easily and with frequent headaches to boot. Blaine didn't seem overly bothered by this prognosis, simply making a noncommittal mmhm sound whenever Kurt brought it up.

He's a fighter, Kurt mused.

Blaine's hand gave his a tiny squeeze as though he had heard.

* * *

Given his unique position to visit Blaine -- neither of the Andersons had shown up since Brian's brief appearance on Thursday -- Kurt was also the first to know when he would finally be released from the hospital. The sunglasses had come off on Monday, as Blaine predicted, and he was talking a little more.

Blaine's release was set for later that afternoon. Just a few more hours in the hospital to ensure that he would be all right and then he could go home.

Home.

Kurt would cut off his left hand before he let Blaine return to his parents' in his current condition, but inwardly he wondered if Blaine would prefer his own room and things surrounding him. He had spent a week in the hospital -- Kurt knew that he would much rather be in his own bed and room if the situations were reversed, exempting the fact that his parents were definitely not Blaine's -- and was probably just as eager to be free as Kurt was to see him discharged.

But where to?

It was hard for Kurt to concentrate during any of his classes that October morning, given how distracted he was. Glee club was a merciful break from having to feign concentration; everyone knew the situation he was in and gave him space. The only problem with glee club was that he couldn't help looking at the chair beside him and seeing how very empty it was, unable to think about competitions at all in his current state.

I don't care about trophies, he thought. I just want Blaine back.

That afternoon, he drove up to the hospital.

What if he says he wants to go to his own house? Kurt wondered as he walked down the long corridor to the waiting room. What are we supposed to do about his parents?

Kurt still found it incredible that they hadn't visited at all; no phone calls, no text messages, nothing. It was completely silent on their end of the equation, and Kurt could almost hear the thoughts blaring from the silence.

When he's perfect, he can come back. Until then, we don't want anything to do with him.

Sighing deeply to himself, Kurt stepped into Blaine's room.

Blaine was asleep, one arm still gripping the unicorn loosely, his eyes shut. It was still a relief for Kurt to finally see him without any sort of sunglasses or bandannas, knowing that Blaine was equally relieved as well. He sat down in the chair beside him and waited, reaching up lightly to intertwine their fingers and stroking the unicorn's head with his thumb.

Maybe twenty minutes or so passed before Blaine stirred, blinking bleary eyes at him. "Hi," he said hoarsely.

Kurt smiled. "Hi. You get to leave tonight."

Blaine's brow furrowed a little.

"It's up to you whether you want to go to your house or mine," Kurt went on. "You're--"

"Yours," Blaine said without hesitation, closing his eyes again.

"Are you sure?"

Blaine paused before nodding minutely.

"Okay," Kurt said, stroking the back of his hand. He could tell by the slightly pained expression on Blaine's face that they were still dropping his pain medication dosage. The only way he would be released from the hospital would be once his dosage was at a suitable prescription level. Gradually switching from a high to low dosage of morphine wasn't a process that Kurt envied him for.

He's alive. But he's not really okay yet, he silently considered, wishing that he could somehow alleviate Blaine's pain more.

* * *

The only adjustments that needed to be made at Kurt's house were simple: Kurt replaced his bedroom's lights with low watt bulbs (Kurt was temporarily relocating back to the basement while Blaine recovered) and moved Finn's video games to the basement. Everything else was mostly the same, since Blaine wouldn't be up and about much for at least a few days. The lower dosage of pain medication if nothing else would keep him mostly bedridden.

Kurt had mixed feelings about the whole process. On the one hand, he was thrilled that Blaine was doing well enough that they were letting him go so soon. On the other hand, Blaine bedridden with near crippling headaches for a few days was not something Kurt looked for to at all.

The only bright side in the situation was that Jeremy Bletcher was currently awaiting trial, resolving Kurt's fears about what would happen once Blaine returned to school.

When he returns to school.

Blaine was still nowhere near the level of functioning needed to endure school, but Kurt did worry about how he would handle going back to McKinley now that he had been so injured.

Will he transfer back to Dalton? the selfish part of him wondered.

He should, his logical side pointed out. He's not safe at McKinley.

Now he is. They caught Bletcher.

Still, Blaine right now was, in a word, fragile. It would be difficult to know how he would handle things once he was a little more coherent.

Focus on that, Kurt told himself firmly, then take it from there.

* * *

On Tuesday, Blaine was doing well.

"I wonder if they'll let me go back tomorrow," he mused, studiously flipping through an old Vogue magazine that Kurt had let him have for entertainment purposes. He was sitting at the kitchen table, barefoot and with his hair a little more ruffled than usual.

"I don't know," Kurt hedged. "Are you really up to school?"

Blaine shrugged a little. "I don't know," he mimicked, "but I won't know until I try, will I?"

"I don't want you setting yourself back," Kurt said seriously. "The last thing we need is to delay your recovery. You're doing great now, Blaine, but I don't want you to push it."

Blaine shrugged again, looking slightly uncomfortable, and focused his gaze back on the Vogue. "I won't," he promised.

Kurt eyed him, in the process of making cookies (as per Finn's request). "I just want to make sure you're safe," he said.

Blaine frowned and looked up at him. "They caught Bletcher, didn't they?"

"Yes, but . . ." Kurt shrugged. "McKinley hasn't exactly been kind to you, has it?"

Blaine shrugged a third time. "I'll be fine."

We'll see, Kurt thought, unable to suppress his concern that Blaine wouldn't.

Stop it. Bletcher can't do anything now.

Looking at Blaine, Kurt couldn't help amending, He already did.

* * *

It had been almost two weeks since Bletcher nearly succeeded in killing him.

Looking over at Kurt, he smiled; Kurt's smile in return was worried, but he seemed a little placated that Blaine had made it through his morning routine all right and was ready to go.

I have to do this, he thought, slipping into the passenger's side of Kurt's Navigator. I'm not running away again. I want to go back.

When they parked in the student lot twenty minutes later, Blaine was ready.

McKinley, here I come.

* * *

If Blaine had fallen to a radioactive pit, his presence could not have been more surprising at McKinley High.

Dozens of eyes followed him, intrigued, curious, horrified, and while in some corner of his mind Blaine wanted to tell them it was rude to stare, he also felt somewhat invigorated by the whole routine. I made it. I'm back.

"Hey, white boy," a familiar voice said, a grinning Mercedes accompanying it as she stepped around the corner and saw him. "Didn't expect to see you around here so soon."

"Neither did I," Kurt put in dryly, stepping up beside Blaine pointedly. "I tried to dissuade him but. . . ." He shrugged.

"I insisted," Blaine said, smiling a little.

"You be careful," Mercedes said sternly. "I don't want anything happening to either of my boys."

"Don't worry, baby girl, I'll take care of it," Marcus said, walking up behind them. "Missed seeing you around here, Andy. Good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," Blaine said truthfully. "I missed getting out."

Kurt made a disgruntled noise.

"I'm not going to do anything dangerous," Blaine assured.

Kurt rolled his eyes heavenward in supplication. "Says the one who walked through a burning chemistry lab."

Blaine nudged his shoulder. "That wasn't my fault."

"True. Still. Are you sure you should be here? It's only been two weeks--"

"Which is more than enough time to recover from a concussion," Blaine finished. "Kurt. I'm fine."

Kurt made the disgruntled noise again and squeezed his hand back. "Of course you are."

"Blaine Anderson--"

"How many times I gotta tell you not to interview him?" Marcus interrupted, turning to confront Jacob Ben Israel and swelling impressively.

"Any comment on this outrageous new development in the glee club's history?" Ben Israel continued, undeterred.

"No," Blaine said calmly, watching Marcus shoulder Ben Israel and his camera aside. "And you really need to find a better hobby."

"Come on. We're going to be late for glee," Kurt said, even though they still had ten minutes. Blaine opened his mouth to say so, saw the slightly pained expression on Kurt's face, and relented.

"Don't worry," he told him, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Kurt's knuckles. "I'm okay now. Remember?"

"You'd claim you were okay if you were on fire," Kurt retorted primly.

"I'm not going to catch on fire," Blaine assured. "Let's just . . . try and put it behind us now, okay?"

Kurt leveled flat eyes at him. "We're not forgetting your parents," he said at once. "And Bletcher's trial--"

"Let's . . . put it aside for a few hours?" Blaine allowed.

Kurt sighed. "Fine. But after school . . . we need to talk about this."

Blaine shrugged a little and let himself be led into the choir room which was, as expected, empty.

"We will," he said, sinking into his old seat and grinning slightly. "Feels good to be back."

Kurt perched delicately in his own chair, but even he couldn't hide a faint smile. "It's good to have you back, Blaine."

Blaine looked around and couldn't help thinking, Third time's the charm. We have to get this routine right eventually.


	17. Chapter 17

Kurt had wanted to have his serious discussion with Blaine about his parents that afternoon, but unfortunately the minute they got home Blaine had sauntered off upstairs and didn't bother re-emerging from Kurt's bedroom. Vexed by his deliberate avoidance of the issue, Kurt had narrowly fended off the urge to go upstairs and tell Blaine that he was playing unfair. There was still the possibility that Blaine was legitimately wiped out by the day's activities and needed the nap, so Kurt restrained himself.

Settling down with his French homework instead, Kurt determined to speak to Blaine later that night, homework free. This would probably be better, anyway, since Kurt wouldn't have to worry about something like homework distracting him from their discussion. Blaine's parents weren't just a minor issue anymore, and even though Kurt had hated their actions before, he was now beginning to hate them simply as people.

How can they do this? Just completely ignore him and wait until things clear up on their own?

Kurt looked down and realized he had written several extremely unrefined words in French and quickly erased them, scowling down at his paper. Maybe I just need a break, he thought, pushing his satchel aside and ambling off with his French doodles' notebook. I don't want to think about anything stressful. Just . . . college.

Which was also incredibly stressful in its own right.

Kurt still had the mountain of college applications to sort through as well as his New York dreams to accommodate, and while he was glad that it was still relatively early in the year, time was nevertheless ticking. He had such a limited frame to work with, between deciding and sending off the applications and receiving the letters back, to choose where he would live his pre-adult life after this.

It has to be in New York, he decided firmly.

He refused to be a Lima Loser for the rest of his life, and regardless of its other qualities, New York appreciated talent like a small town in Ohio couldn't. He wanted to make it big somehow, and he knew that his best bet was New York.

But how to get there, he mused, absently listing his top colleges in the margins of his book.

Drifting off in his own digressions, Kurt started when Finn opened the front door, half-expecting Bletcher to be standing there. Finn, for his part, looked relieved to be home, casually dropping his duffel bag in a corner. "Practice sucked," he said, as though Kurt cared (and admittedly he did find it kind of nice to be in the loop, even if he didn't care for sports at all). He wandered into the kitchen and pulled out a new bag of Oreos Carole had bought the other day, opening it and setting it on the island. "What're you doing?" he asked, munching on the black-and-white cookies.

Kurt closed his eyes to avoid the scarring sight of Finn digesting his food and said, "Thinking about New York."

"Rachel can't stop talking about that," Finn said with a pained look, pulling out another Oreo and popping it in his mouth. "I'm not even sure I want to go there anymore. I mean, yeah, New York's great and all but. . . ." He shrugged. "I kind of like it here."

"You're kidding," Kurt deadpanned. Then: "You do realize Rachel's going to kill you once she realizes that you're not going to New York with her."

Finn shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, it's my future too, you know? Maybe we need some space for a few years. See if it's really . . . serious and all between us."

"Mmph," Kurt said, because if he was going to New York Blaine was coming too, no questions asked. "I see," he added, since he could at least appreciate that being Rachel Berry's boyfriend must be the most difficult full-time job in the world.

This almost makes me wish I was your boyfriend, she had remarked wryly while they were sitting in her car having the 'pity party' after the NYADA audition.

I already have a boyfriend, Kurt thought and smiled. And he's perfect for me.

"Oh. Damn," Finn said suddenly. Kurt looked up and saw that he was tugging his phone out of his pocket, sighing in exasperation. Setting the Oreos down, he said, "Hi, Rachel," and ambled off to the basement, disappearing below.

That's disgusting, Kurt thought, looking at the wreckage of black-and-white cookie leftover. He gingerly picked up the bag and set it back inside the cupboard before decisively moving towards the stairs. If Blaine was really asleep, he would leave him be, but if this was one of those 'avoidance maneuvers' then Kurt wasn't going to fall for it.

We have to talk about this some time, he reasoned as his more compassionate side protested that Blaine probably wasn't avoiding it.

Kurt noticed that the bathroom light was on even though the door was wide open. Rolling his eyes slightly -- Finn, how many times do I have to tell you it's a waste of electricity? -- he flicked it off and continued on.

Just as he was pushing the slightly-askew door to his room open further, the light flicked back on.

Kurt whirled around, reflexively wondering if it was a poltergeist before rolling his eyes. That is the last time I watch horror movies with Finn, he thought, turning his attention back to his bedroom briefly -- and yes, the covers were indeed sleep-ruffled and the lights were out, but there was no Blaine in sight -- before cautiously retracing his steps. Unable to help himself, he flicked the light off first and waited, a thin groan sounding from within.

The light flicked back on.

Kurt stepped inside and nearly tripped over Blaine, who was sitting back on his haunches looking very ruffled, gripping his hair tightly and close-eyed. "Blaine?" he asked softly. He crouched down in front of him, worried, and saw a thin sheet of sweat over his face. "Are you okay?"

Blaine shook his head slightly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes before reaching up and flicking the light off. There was still plenty of light filtering in from the hallway, of course, but he still relaxed infinitesimally in the restored darkness.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, reaching over to rub his back soothingly. "Headache?"

Blaine nodded faintly, dropping one arm to wrap around his stomach. He groaned, leaning over so his head was resting against Kurt's shoulder, trembling slightly.

Worried that he had been wrong to let him go to school (and really, Kurt wondered, with the side of him that could notice stupid things like this even when his boyfriend looked way too pale for comfort, when did he become the 'parent' in this?), Kurt gently tugged Blaine back to his feet. Blaine leaned against him, mostly deadweight, almost hunched over with one hand gripping his head and the other arm wrapped around his stomach. It was a painstakingly slow process to get him back to Kurt's room given the short distance, but Blaine had had headaches like this before, minus the impromptu visit to the bathroom.

Did he throw up? Kurt wondered, surprised at his own lack of observation.

But no, it hadn't smelled like vomit, and he hadn't heard Blaine retching at all even with the door wide open. Before Finn arrived the house had been virtually silent; Kurt was certain that he would have heard him. He's probably just nauseous, Kurt's clinical side deduced, as Blaine flopped limply onto his side on the bed, tugging a pillow over his head.

Sitting delicately on the edge of the bed, Kurt gently rubbed his back, watching Blaine's fingers contract and relax as he suppressed whatever pain he was feeling. Twenty minutes passed (Kurt only knew by looking at the digital clock balanced on his nightstand) before Blaine's fingers steadied, neither releasing nor tightening their grip.

Edging his fingers slightly off the pillow, Kurt interlaced his hand with Blaine's. His grip slackened noticeably, limp and cold.

"Are you okay?" Kurt repeated lightly, rubbing one of Blaine's knuckles.

Blaine shrugged a shoulder.

"You shouldn't have pushed yourself to go a full day today," Kurt said, not really angry so much as worried. He felt like he could hold thirty-minute grudges against Blaine at best: true anger was impossible. Besides, this Blaine didn't look like he could deal with anything more complicated than breathing right now, and Kurt had no intention in making things more miserable for him. So he said simply, "You should probably stay here tomorrow."

Blaine shook his head slightly. Kurt sighed. He would talk with him more later and see, but for the moment, he was convinced Blaine wasn't going anywhere.

"You still awake?" Kurt asked lightly, noticing how slack Blaine's grip had gone.

Blaine shook his head a little.

"Feel better," was all Kurt said, giving his hand one last squeeze before backing off and climbing back to his feet.

* * *

Blaine recovered surprisingly well, managing to pull himself together enough to want to go to school in the morning.

Of course, Kurt side-eyed him the entire time, not wanting to unintentionally trigger a setback. Blaine had sheepishly admitted that his earlier nausea was partially a result of not taking his pain medications as regularly as he should have. Kurt had chided him and, after promising to stay on schedule with it, Blaine had managed to get back into his good books.

Even classes that morning didn't dampen Kurt's mood. Rather than staying for lunch in the crowded cafeteria, he and Blaine went out as a refreshing alternative. Overall, the day could not have gone better, and despite his former fear that Blaine was somehow regressing after his seemingly miraculous recovery, Kurt knew that he no longer had anything to fear.

"Something on your mind?" Blaine asked, his hand sliding across the table to give Kurt's a brief squeeze. For someone who had nearly been killed twice in less than a month, he looked well, untroubled and even vaguely concerned about Kurt's well-being. A wry smile curled his lips without him meaning to at the thought that Blaine was worried about him. He certainly hadn't been through the same trauma recently, even though the scare in Figgins' office had set him back several paces.

"I was just thinking about invitationals," he lied, noting the way Blaine's expression lost a little of its brightness at that. He had wanted to be a part of the glee club since the beginning, his entire It's Not Unusual performance centered around initiating him into the New Directions. To be held back by an injury- however little he was responsible for it- had been a depressing reality that came along with being hospitalized. Kurt knew that he would have traded the hours spent in a morphine-induced haze for the competition eagerly, but his concussion had proven rebellious enough that he'd had no choice.

"How did you do?" Blaine asked.

Kurt shrugged, smiling when Blaine's thumb traced over the backs of his knuckles. "We qualified for sectionals," he said simply. "It's not really a competition," he added, since the Warblers' didn't have an equivalent. "It's just an opportunity for the local show choirs to 'strut their stuff.'" He air-quoted the announcer's words, rolling his eyes as he took a sip from his water.

Blaine smiled in return. "Were you there?" he asked.

Kurt felt a guilty twinge in his stomach as he admitted, "No."

Blaine's brow furrowed. "Kurt."

"You were in the hospital," Kurt said, shrugging as though this explained everything. "I wouldn't have been able to concentrate. And I didn't want to leave you."

"You shouldn't have missed your first competition of the year," Blaine chided.

"You shouldn't have been targeted by a pyromaniac, either," Kurt quipped.

They said nothing for a long time. At last, picking at his sleeve, Blaine said, "I'll be more careful, Kurt."

"I know you will," Kurt agreed, deflating a little. "I just . . . I worry about you."

"With apparently good reason," Blaine pointed out, a wry smile on his lips.

Kurt smiled humorlessly. "Let's just . . . focus on making the rest of the year better? Maybe a little less adventurous?"

Blaine looked at him, biting his lower lip slightly. "Being adventurous doesn't mean you're dangerous, you know."

Kurt lifted an eyebrow. "And how do you want to be adventurous?"

Blaine blushed. "Never mind," he said. "No, seriously," he added, when Kurt tilted his head to one side curiously. "Don't worry about it."

"No, talk to me," Kurt insisted. "Why do you want to be 'adventurous'?"

Looking around them, seeming to check that no one was potentially eavesdropping on their conversation, Blaine added quietly, "I just think that . . . now that we've been . . . boyfriends for almost six months . . . we can do things?"

It was Kurt's turn to pink. "You want to-"

"Not now," Blaine hastened to admit, ears turning red. "Just . . . a little more. Baby steps."

Kurt pursed his lips, sizing Blaine up. The latter looked almost mortified, glancing around and seeming to be looking for an escape. He doesn't think you want anything more, a little voice pointed out to Kurt.

Do you?

"Look, we don't have to do anything we haven't already done-" Blaine was saying.

"I want to," Kurt broke in.

Blaine blinked. "You . . . want to?"

Kurt nodded. "I do."

A soft smile crossed Blaine's face. "We don't have to do everything at once," he added. "We can just . . . mix things up a little."

Kurt inclined his head. "I can handle that."

And he could. Maybe Blaine had been attacked and nearly killed, but that didn't mean that he didn't still want things with Blaine. And if Blaine wanted those things, too . . . all the more reason to pursue them.


	18. Chapter 18

"Hey, white boy."

Blaine looked up and smiled at Mercedes. "Hey," he said, moving his legs off the couch so she could sit down beside him. "What're you doing here?"

"What, I'm not allowed here anymore?" she asked, looking at the stack of folders he had sitting next to him. "Berry drop by already?"

Blaine nodded. It had both baffled and bemused him just how much she had invested in the papers now sitting beside him. From his cursory perusal, he had seen that she had included just about everything he could possibly do academically for the next year, even a prediction of how well he would need to do in order to get into several New York colleges.

Blaine had just inwardly shaken his head and outwardly bobbed it in response to Rachel's explanations, admittedly grateful when she had left to take care of some 'NYADA business.'

He blinked, startled, when Mercedes sat down beside him. He had almost forgotten that she was there in the midst of his own musings. She leaned back against the cushions comfortably, grinning at him. "Damn, boy. You've got it made."

Blaine grinned back.

"Not a bad place to hang out for a few days, no," he allowed.

"How did that girl manage to make you a schedule for the past five weeks in less than a day?" Mercedes asked, looking at the sizable stack of papers sitting beside him. She reached out and carefully picked off the top sheet, scanning it briefly before shaking her head and setting it back down.

Blaine shrugged. "She wanted to contribute somehow," he said, lifting the same sheet for himself and looking it over. "I guess this is just her natural reaction to this sort of thing."

"Yeah, it's Rachel Berryish, all right," Mercedes agreed. She was still looking at the pile warily as though she expected it to leap up and attack them. "But I didn't come here to talk about Rachel -- how're you?"

Blaine smiled. "I'm much better. I finally feel like I'm not just some invalid anymore." He looked down at the papers a final time before nudging them away with a sock-clad foot. "Although, I'm not quite sure I'm up to Berry standards," he admitted. "She planned out my entire year in advance."

"Well, the good news is you haven't missed much," Mercedes assured. "Everything seemed pretty quiet after . . . well, you know." Blaine nodded -- he definitely knew -- and waited for her to continue. "Anyway," she went on, right on cue, "you missed invitationals, but if you're feeling up to it, sectionals aren't for another three weeks."

Blaine scrunched up his nose a little. "I'm still taking this day-by-day," he said truthfully. "But I'd love to perform with you guys. In an actual competition," he added. He had already performed You Can't Stop the Beat with them, of course, but he had never performed with them at competitions.

"We're here for you too, you know," Mercedes said suddenly, her entire visage sobering. Blaine blinked at the unexpected gesture, a small smile quirking his lips upwards as she went on. "I mean, yes, we're kind of obligated to like you because your Kurt's beau and you're not a jerk," she admitted, "but we're also here for you. As Blaine."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm okay now. Really."

"If you're ever not, come to us, okay?" Mercedes said seriously. "I know that we haven't been able to do much lately, but we all love each other, and you're one of us now."

Blaine's smile turned wry. "Even Rachel?"

"When she's not being crazy," Mercedes assured.

"Which is basically all the time," Blaine pointed out.

Mercedes rolled her eyes and shoved his knee slightly. "All I'm saying, white boy, is that if you ever need a shoulder to lean on, we're all here for you."

He paused, looking up at her. "Thank you," was all he said.

* * *

"Did Rachel really drop off even more of these?" Kurt asked in exasperation, shutting the door behind him and dropping his satchel by the door. "She really needs to learn to -- oh. Sorry."

"S'okay," Blaine yawned, sitting up from where he had been napping. Stretching sleep-stiffened muscles lazily, Blaine asked, "Where'd you go?"

Kurt shrugged, sitting down on the couch beside him in Mercedes' former spot. "The mall. Tina had a wardrobe emergency -- apparently she's going out with Mike tonight to celebrate some obscure Asian we've-been-dating-for-I-don't-know-how-long anniversary."

"And were you successful?"

"We bumped into Quinn briefly. That was awkward."

Blaine's brow wrinkled as he tried to place the name.

"The one with the pink hair?" Kurt interjected helpfully.

"Ah. What happened to her, anyway?"

Kurt shook his head. "Who knows? Over the summer she just stopped talking with everyone and became the new Quinn."

"Is she okay?"

"She's . . . managing," Kurt corrected. "According to Puck, she's been struggling a lot being away from Beth."

"Who's Beth?" Blaine murmured.

"Her daughter. She got pregnant three years ago after a drunken night with Puck. She gave Beth up for adoption after the birth. Apparently she's really missing her."

"I can imagine," Blaine said softly. "That would be hard."

Kurt nodded. "Shelby Corcoran -- former coach of Vocal Adrenaline -- adopted Beth, but now that Corcoran's teaching at McKinley. . . ." He shrugged. Blaine felt himself lift up infinitesimally with the gesture. "Quinn's reminded of the whole ordeal all over again. And here's the kicker: Ms. Corcoran is Rachel's biological mother."

"Wow."

"Mmmhmm. So between Rachel, Quinn, and Puck, you basically have our entire sophomore year drama."

"Why didn't you ever tell me any of this before?" Blaine asked, genuinely curious.

Another shrug. "It didn't come up. Besides, how do you open that conversation? 'Oh, by the way, that's my friend Quinn, who dated my other friend Puck and had a baby with him, but she told my stepbrother Finn that he was the father which made my best friend Rachel upset until Quinn gave the baby away for adoption to Rachel's biological mother'? Very suave."

"Can I have the Spark Noted version of that?" Blaine asked. "I'm getting a headache just thinking about it. And what about Finn?"

"Quinn panicked when she first heard the news," Kurt elaborated. "Rather than telling Puck that he was the father, she told Finn that he was. Apparently there was an incident with a hot tub and with Finn's gullibility. . . ." Kurt shook his head. "Long story short, Puck knew Finn wasn't the baby daddy, Finn found out, they had a big fight, Quinn eventually accepted Puck as the father but still wanted to give the baby up for adoption, and now Beth is in the loving hands of a Miss Shelby Corcoran."

Blaine draped a hand over his eyes. "I give up," he said.

Kurt chuckled quietly and patted his side once consolingly. "That's the tip of the iceberg as far as glee club drama goes."

"The most dramatic thing the Warblers ever did was have a seven-week Star Wars marathon courtesy of Wes and David," Blaine noted. "I think it's because they had mancrushes on Han Solo."

Kurt laughed. "'Mancrushes'?"

"You know. Straight man turned fanboy over a hot guy. It happens." He waved a hand dismissively.

There was a long, comfortable pause. Then: "Speaking of parents and complicated relationships. . . ."

Blaine didn't even try to hide his groan.

"Must we talk about this now?"

"When else are we going to talk about it?" Kurt retorted lightly. "At the dinner table with Finn and my dad and Carole?"

Blaine wrinkled his nose, Kurt's hand coming to rest on his hip.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," he said, which, Blaine thought, should have effectively ended the conversation there. I don't want to talk about it, you don't really want to know, so why bother ask? Kurt didn't seem to be thinking along the same line of thought. "But this is serious, Blaine. What your parents are doing isn't simply wrong, it's really worrying. How would this have gone if we hadn't been around? Would your parents have even bothered come to the hospital, except maybe to pick you up?"

"It's just how they are," he said, hoping that Kurt would get the message and leave the topic alone. "Or, rather, how they've become. And honestly? I'm close enough to being an adult that I really shouldn't need my parents to be keeping track of me all the time."

"Blaine, you had a concussion. That's not exactly missing curfew or scraping your knee. But they didn't -- Blaine, they didn't do anything."

Blaine resisted the urge to fold his arms. He knew it would appear defensive, and while he only intended the gesture to distract his hands, he didn't want Kurt to think he was trying to hide from the reality, either. "I know what they're like," he said quietly, "and I can understand why you're upset. It's -- it's not fair that they ignore these things, but they do."

"So you're giving up?" Kurt asked.

"This isn't a fight."

"Yes, it is," Kurt said firmly. "Don't you understand? They're almost completely ignoring you just because--"

"I'm gay?" Blaine bit out, unable to help himself. The anger he had felt at his parents was rising again. "Yes, Kurt, I do understand why they ignore me. And it's because I'm gay. When I was 'straight,' they were . . . I hate to make the analogy now, but they were like Burt and Carole. Good people. Then I turned fourteen and came out of the closet." He shrugged, crossing his arms, unable to help himself. "You can guess what happened next."

There was a long pause. Blaine momentarily wondered if he had upset Kurt before dismissing the thought, staring at the opposite wall instead. Kurt had wanted to know and, well, now he knew. For almost fourteen years, Blaine's parents had been fairly normal.

But then he had revealed his sexuality and the dysfunctional arrangement had begun.

So they're not perfect, he thought, ignoring the aching resentment in his gut as he waited for a response. No one is.

"So . . . it did change when you came out of the closet."

Blaine bit his lip against the urge to shout that yes, that was exactly what he was getting at, because he wasn't really mad at Kurt. "Yes," he said instead.

"It doesn't excuse their actions, Blaine," Kurt said, his voice low. "They still have a responsibility to you, regardless of whether or not you're gay or straight."

"I'm eighteen, Kurt. Don't you think that we all know that means I'm supposed to be an adult by now and able to handle myself?"

"Blaine, you're a teenager. Someone who still needs his parents to take care of him when he's badly hurt."

Blaine clenched his arms a little tighter. Do you think I haven't already realized that?

"I know that this is hard," Kurt said softly, "and I'm sorry it is this way, but it can't stay this way."

Blaine shrugged a little, unconvinced. "Kurt, they've made up their minds," he said, surprised at the weariness in his own voice. "They're not going to change now. It's been like this for four years. I know."

"So, what, you're just going to ignore them forever?" Kurt demanded. "How can you, Blaine?"

Uncomfortably aware of what Kurt would say next, Blaine braced himself for the next words.

"What if you couldn't stay here? What would happen then?"

Silence.

"Do you want me to leave?" Blaine asked.

Kurt shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that. I just wanted you to see why this is a problem. You shouldn't have to be afraid of your own home, Blaine."

"I'm not afraid."

"But you're not happy."

They looked at each other and the answer was clear.

"We'll work through this, Blaine," Kurt promised. "We'll talk to them, get them to understand--"

"I appreciate the optimism," Blaine broke in quietly. "But I really don't think anything's going to change."

They sat, silently debating the merits of even trying, before Blaine pushed himself into a more upright position. "I'm tired," he said bluntly, surprised at how much weight the words carried.

Kurt looked at him with apologetic eyes, wordlessly offering an outstretched arm. Blaine hesitated before sighing and scooting over so that he was leaning against Kurt again, soaking in the warmth and familiarity. Yes, he decided, feeling his frustration trickling away as Kurt's fingers stroked his side again. That was certainly much better than arguing about parents.

He hated that he was burdening Kurt's family like this, but honestly, he wasn't sure how to handle the situation anymore. It was hard enough figuring out how he would handle McKinley, let alone his parents. McKinley, my parents, the Warblers, Bletcher. . . .

Draping his arm back over his head, willing the thoughts to disappear, Blaine lay, calm and complacent, letting his boyfriend's presence soothe him.

It's okay, Kurt seemed to say, with every warm breath, every light brush of his fingertips. It's okay.

Yes, Blaine thought. It was, if only superficially.


	19. Chapter 19

Karofsky was waiting for Blaine at his locker, looking uneasy.

Marcus stepped up beside him. "That guy giving you any trouble?" he asked, his voice low and rumbling.

Blaine shrugged and ventured forward, Marcus remaining at his shoulder.

"Can we . . . talk in private?" Karofsky asked, his voice almost comically higher than Marcus's even though he was keeping it deliberately lower than usual.

"No," Marcus said at once.

"Not if 'in private' means 'out of sight,'" Blaine amended.

"You don't have to talk with him if you don't want to," Marcus muttered.

Karofsky flushed in frustration. "Look, I just want -- what you said. Earlier. Bletcher's gone," he intoned, "but things still aren't . . . I. . . ."

"If you really want to talk," Blaine said quietly, "this isn't the right place."

Karofsky nodded jerkily, face stoic in a way that meant he didn't want to admit he agreed with Blaine.

"However. Six PM, Lima Bean. Be there?"

There was a moment when he thought Karofsky would roll his eyes and say that Blaine was being stupid, of course he wouldn't want to revisit that place, but in the end he just nodded again. "Fine," he said and stormed off down the hallway, blending in with the general flow seamlessly.

"I don't trust him," Marcus rumbled. "He seems like a bad kid."

"He's just . . . struggling," Blaine said, surprised at his own ability to defend Karofsky. Why should I? his cynical side demanded. He doesn't deserve any more chances.

But he's reaching out to you this time, his conscience pointed out quietly. If this was you, would you have ignored it?

The circular logic was making his head hurt a little, but generally he understood the concept.

I never did what Karofsky did, he retorted, eventually conceding, but it would have made a difference if someone had just been there.

He would meet Karofsky at the Lima Bean, he decided, if for no other reason than to see if Karofsky was genuinely interested in true reform. Who knows, Blaine mused, maybe he'll even join PFLAG.

The thought, once hopelessly optimistic, seemed strangely within reach, as though it was more of an inevitability rather than a mere possibility.

I doubt it, he hedged. But it's possible.

"Whatever you say, Andy," was all Marcus said.


	20. Chapter 20

"Hey, kids," Coach Beiste said, testing football equipment when Blaine and Kurt walked out onto the football field. "What are you two doing here?"

"We're looking for the Cheerios," Kurt prompted, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Have you seen them?"

"They're off for the day since Coach Sylvester's out. Something to do with 'political campaigning.'" She shook her head and set aside a pair of pads she had deemed acceptable. "Why do you want to see the Cheerios?"

"It's Santana's birthday."

Coach Beiste paused in turning a helmet over to look at them. "I thought she quit glee club."

"She did," Kurt confirmed, noting the way Blaine all but frisked on his feet, eager to be back inside the warmth of the school, "but we're still a family. I don't want her birthday to go by without saying anything about it."

Coach Beiste grunted as she tossed the helmet off to one side, brushing her hands together and standing up, one hand gripping a pair of crutches. "Well," she said, tucking the crutches under her arms, "the last I heard she left early for the day. So you probably won't find her here, but that's really nice of you to want to tell her." She grabbed one of the bags she'd filled with good helmets.

"Let me help you with that," Blaine volunteered, his desire for warmth forgotten as he walked forward and picked up the discarded helmets' pile. It was noticeably smaller than Beiste's but proportionally equivalent to Blaine's size, Kurt noted with an amused smile. He sauntered over and picked up the bag full of pads, gingerly pulling it over a shoulder.

"You boys don't have to do that," Coach Beiste protested.

"It's fine," Blaine promised.

Kurt was glad to drop the pads off on a bench inside the locker room, Coach Beiste hobbling over to the front of the room and setting down the helmets.

"Thanks." She tucked her crutches neatly off to one side and sat down in the coach's chair, propping her foot up on a stool. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," Blaine said. Kurt could tell that he was glad to be back indoors. His shoulders relaxed, his entire posture losing some of its tension.

"I think you boys should still let your friend know you remembered her birthday," Coach Beiste added, "even if she's not in school. It makes a difference to a girl."

"We will," Kurt confirmed, surprised at the finality in his own voice.

Coach Beiste nodded. "Good. Now, I need to write a complaint to the directors of Ace of Cakes, so you kids get out of here or I'll kick one of you instead of the fire hydrant this time."

Kurt and Blaine wisely left the room.

* * *

Lima Heights Adjacent wasn't nearly as bad as Santana had always made it sound, Kurt thought. If he didn't know any better then he would have assumed that it was nothing more than the outskirts of Lima: there were few indications that anything was different, and certainly none of the distinguishing features he was expecting. Blaine walked at his side, letting him set the pace.

Kurt vaguely remembered Santana's address, and while it only took them twenty minutes to find it, he could feel the silent contemplation stretching between them.

Why would she take a half day? he wondered. Especially on her birthday.

He cautiously stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell.

A minute passed in silence, neither the characteristic sound of movement within nor a person shuffling outside permeating the quiet. At last, something moved, the door opening a moment later as Santana appeared. She had a dry, immovable look on her face, rather like the one she usually wore when she was angry. "What?" she asked, her voice surprisingly neutral.

Kurt opened his mouth to say something before closing it. Somehow, a simple 'happy birthday' just didn't seem right, so instead he asked, "Can we come in?"

Santana's face closed off briefly before she nodded and opened the door.

Kurt nearly tripped over his own feet when he stepped over the threshold. Quinn was sitting in the living room with a young girl in her arms, the girl's fingers playing absentmindedly with the pink strands of Quinn's hair. She had gone blonde after a spell of pink, apparently deciding that she preferred her old visage to the 'new Quinn.' It was still an adjustment for Kurt to see her looking 'normal' again but still acting like the 'new Quinn,' a combination that was confusing to say the least.

"Shelby's father is sick," she murmured as she smiled down at the young girl, "so she left me to babysit Beth for a while."

Beth gripped strands of her hair in tiny fists, mystified, while Kurt stared. It made sense that Quinn would come here -- Kurt had heard Brittany referring to Santana, Quinn and herself as 'Almond Joys' -- especially since her own parents had long since denounced the pregnancy. Well. Her father had. Her mother had made a bit of a turnaround, but Kurt had no idea what her opinion about the 'new Quinn' was.

"Are you two going to just stand there all day?" Santana asked, giving Kurt a pointed nudge that spurred him forward a little. He dropped heavily onto the couch beside Quinn, Blaine sitting beside him while Santana casually draped herself in one of the larger chairs across from them. For a time, there was silence beside the curious sounds Beth occasionally made as she discovered some new texture, at last settling down with her head on Quinn's shoulder.

"So this is why you took the half day," Kurt said softly, not wanting to disrupt the silence completely by speaking loudly.

Santana shrugged once passively. "Right in one, hairspray."

"She's beautiful," Blaine interrupted quietly, somehow knowing just how to fend off an argument before it could fully manifest itself.

Silence. For a long time, Kurt was certain it would continue until he and Blaine left, but then Quinn smiled a tiny bit and nodded. "Yes. She is," she said, rubbing Beth's back slowly. "She's also growing fast."

They waited, letting the silence stretch comfortably before Santana cleared her throat at last.

"What are you two even doing here?" she asked. "Isn't there like, a Brokeback Mountain scene you could be re-enacting?"

Kurt flushed while Blaine's gaze remained fixed on Beth, soft and a little musing. "We're not like that," Kurt said. "And we just . . . wanted to stop by to say happy birthday."

The words felt dry and useless on his tongue, but for one moment he was certain he saw Santana smile a little bit. Then she shook her head slightly and made a shooing gesture.

"If that's all you came here for, you can leave now," she said, with her usual lack of subtlety that Kurt sometimes loathed, sometimes enjoyed. For once, he wasn't sure what he felt on the matter, but he nodded slowly and stood up, Blaine dazedly doing the same beside him.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked.

Santana's lips again quirked in that momentary smile before she rolled her eyes. "Don't push it, hairspray."

* * *

"So that's Beth."

Blaine hadn't spoken since they left Santana's house. While Kurt was a little worried about the silence, he had chosen to leave it alone after deciding that Blaine would speak when he wanted to. It wasn't until they were sitting in the living room, Blaine on the ground and Kurt with his legs lazily folded on the couch, that he decided to break it, that same soft, musing quality clear in his voice.

"Yes," Kurt said slowly, wondering where this was going. "She would be about a year old by now."

Blaine nodded as though he was filing the information away for later, a smile still clear on his face as he stared unseeingly at the book in front of him. Kurt waited, pretending to be writing something down in his French doodles' notebook. At last, Blaine sat up a little more and spoke.

"I'm surprised at how calm Quinn was," he said, "given how upset you described her when you mentioned the whole ordeal."

"I'm sure it calms her to finally be able to see her daughter again," Kurt pointed out.

"It's amazing."

Kurt watched him discreetly for several long moments before shutting his book and laying it aside. It took Blaine almost a full minute before he looked over at the closed book, another thirty seconds before he blinked and tilted his head around to look at Kurt.

Scooting off the couch and stretching out beside him, Kurt asked, "What's this all about?"

Blaine's demeanor changed instantly, going from open and light to heavy and serious. It was almost eerie, how suddenly he went from being happy to closed off. Blaine usually found a happy medium, either somewhat morose or a little melancholy. Closed off was practically a wall, and with a slight shudder Kurt recalled how Brian's face had looked when he shut off his emotions.

That's one thing he got from them, he mused, the jolt of his shudder seeming to draw Blaine back.

"Sorry," he said, when Blaine looked at him in concern. "What's wrong? You're acting . . . different."

Looking down at his fingertips, Blaine folded his hands, the window-shutters only creeping up a little bit as he spoke. "Quinn's relationship with her daughter is so fragile, but she still manages to maintain it. A high school senior has a more tangible relationship with her daughter than. . . ." He bit his lip and shook his head, unable to finish.

Kurt nudged his shoulder lightly. "Than . . . ?" he prompted gently.

"I need to go back." Blaine's voice was almost hollow as he said it, but he was already shuffling as though he would get up and simply walk there to Westerville if nothing else. "I can't just -- I have to--"

"Okay, hold up," Kurt said, wrapping his arms around his waist and tugging him back down. "It's almost five, you're not going anywhere tonight."

Blaine cast him a look.

Kurt's eyebrows lifted and he actually retracted his arms, wondering if he had pushed too far.

Then Blaine sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We can still be really honest with each other, right?"

Kurt nodded.

"Then -- and this is so petty but . . . I'm just -- jealous." He said the last word so quietly that he almost mouthed it. "I mean, that's how things are supposed to be, isn't it? Crises bond." Shrugging his shoulders, Blaine pushed himself to his feet. Kurt didn't stop him. "I'm going for a walk."

"Want me to . . . ?" Kurt didn't even have to finish before Blaine was shaking his head.

"No."

He leaned back a little and watched as Blaine shrugged on a navy hoodie before disappearing around the door, wondering if this would ever resolve.

I don't want him going back, he could silently admit. They don't deserve him.

If their positions had been reversed, Kurt didn't know how he would have responded. He knew that he would be upset and probably angry as well as betrayed. Parents were supposed to be there. And Blaine's had been nothing if not conspicuously absent.

Tomorrow, Kurt decided firmly, we'll talk to them tomorrow.

He waited for Blaine to return, absently doodling in his notebook, barely noticing when an hour, two hours slipped by. By the time it was eight and Blaine still hadn't made a reappearance, Kurt grabbed his phone before clenching his fingers around it.

Of course, he realized, his is still at home.

How Blaine had survived so long without it, he didn't know.

Willing himself not to panic, Kurt waited as the minutes dragged on.

He's coming back, he thought, certain. He has to.

This isn't his home, though, his logical side pointed out. He doesn't have to come back.

But he did. Because he was Blaine and this was the closest thing to home he had right now, and even if Kurt hated that Blaine's parents were responsible for this, he was glad that Blaine had someone.

So he waited. Impatiently, on edge, but nevertheless knowing that Blaine had to come back.

He has to.

* * *

Blaine had wrestled his emotions back under control by the time he walked into the Lima Bean just after six.

Karofsky wasn't there yet, but he wasn't worried. Sitting down at one of the tables, he folded his hands and waited.

Three minutes passed. Five. Ten.

At last, a hulking figure entered the shop, slightly hunched over. Blaine leveled a glance at him. Karofsky could still back out of this if he wanted to. For one moment, Blaine was certain he would.

Then Karofsky walked over and sat down heavily in the opposite chair, staring at him thoughtfully.

"So," Blaine began, "what was it?"

Karofsky snarled a little, his lip curling. "What was what?"

"Someone -- excluding myself, Kurt, or Santana -- knows about you." He smiled a little, leaving the ball in Karofsky's court.

Karofsky paled noticeably, even though his pallor was already gray enough that most people wouldn't have known the change. "How did you find out?" he demanded raggedly. "Who told you?"

"No one," Blaine said calmly. "I figured it out on my own." He paused, letting Karofsky consider that, before saying, "I don't think it's Bletcher. I also don't think it's Azimio."

"Right on both accounts," Karofsky replied in a dangerously soft voice. "Any other guesses?"

Blaine considered the question, mulling through the list of people he knew in Lima who might have found out about Dave Karofsky's not-so-ordinary sexuality.

Then he blinked. It was so obvious that he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. "Your parents," he said with an absoluteness in his voice that left no room for argument.

Karofsky's snarl deepened. "It's your fault," he bit out. "They knew I wasn't -- gay." He mouthed the word, unable to dare put breath behind it when sitting with another male.

Blaine cocked his head to one side curiously. "Not anymore," he pointed out lightly.

Karofsky made a lunging motion before visibly halting the gesture. Blaine's heart rate spiked involuntarily before he forcibly quelled it. We're in a public place, he chided himself. He's not going to do anything.

"You need to control yourself," he added, continuing in the same, almost lighthearted tone that would make any would-be eavesdroppers think they were discussing quarter finals. "I don't know what your prospects are, but right now, I might be one of the only allies you have."

With another tense gesture, Karofsky hunched his shoulders a little more. "I don't want your advice, prep boy," he all but rasped.

"Clearly, you do. You wouldn't be here if you didn't." He waited, half-expecting Karofsky to give a snappish retort, before continuing calmly, "I know where you're coming from. This isn't easy. But it's better to have it out in the open than hiding it."

"It's not," Karofsky said, voice low. "You don't know even what you're talking about."

"Let's pretend for five minutes that I do," Blaine said, amazed at how calm his voice was. "Okay? Hypothetically speaking, let's just assume that I might actually know what I'm talking about and understand where you're coming from. So. They know. What does that change?"

"Everything," Karofsky snapped.

"Only as much as you want it to," Blaine corrected. Brown eyes almost black with disbelief stared him down. "If you want this to blow completely out of proportion, then walk away. I'm not going to fight you about this."

The quiet busy-noise of the coffee shop around them seemed almost oppressive as Blaine waited for Karofsky to react. At last, he rubbed his forehead with the flat of one palm, staring at the table.

"Are you going to listen?" he prompted.

Karofsky nodded once stiffly.

Blaine took a breath, silent, slow. Whoever knew I would be giving Dave Karofsky advice about his parents? he mused.

At last, he spoke. "Go back to them," he said quietly. "Talk to them. If you try and ignore this, it's just going to follow you." He paused, and then added, "The initial reaction's always the worst. It might surprise you how much better it goes the second time. But keep at it. Convince them that this isn't a bad thing. Because you know what? It doesn't change anything. The only thing it changes is your integrity: if you can't be honest with your only family, something's really wrong, Karofsky."

This is me, Blaine thought, staring at the dubious black eyes, the unmoved expression. Four years ago.

But there hadn't been anyone sitting at the other side of the table then. There hadn't been someone who had made it, who had a boyfriend and was happy, to tell him that somehow this wasn't going to be the end of the world. There wasn't anyone. He had sat in empty silence for hours, willing the solution to come to him, and in the end, he had given up. He had told them, but he hadn't persisted: he had let the uneasiness, the resentment, the uncertainty fester and fade with time, re-ignited with every new trauma, every new wound.

I made a mistake.

He didn't have a time machine. He couldn't go back and tell his younger self that this wasn't the end of everything.

But he could stop it from happening again.

And maybe you could change your own life in the process, a small voice reminded.

Karofsky sighed, breaking his reverie. "I can't believe I'm listening to you."

Blaine suppressed a slight smile. "I can't believe I'm speaking to you," he quipped lightly, "but I am, and you are, and that matters more right now than anything else. Talk to them, Karofsky. I know . . . I know you reformed. You promised to do better." Karofsky's eyes were darker still as they regarded him, but Blaine plowed forward regardless. "This is doing better," he said. "This will make a difference in your life, whatever way you look at it. And if you need support? We're here. We can help you. Because unless you want to live your entire life a lie, then you need to come o--"

"Do not finish that," Karofsky interrupted, his hands clenched around each other.

Blaine spread his own in a placating gesture. "All I'm saying is that you need to talk to people about this. Otherwise, you haven't really changed at all. You're still that person who forced a kiss on someone, threatened to kill my boyfriend, and bullied dozens of people for years. I get that you're angry. It doesn't make an excuse."

Blaine stood up, surprised at his own movement. He hadn't known that he would be ending this conversation, but so it was, his certainty brimming as he spoke. "Talk to them, talk to us if you need to, but talk to someone. Don't close yourself off from this. And I don't know what you think of it, but you might want to consider joining PFLAG, too. It's not about professing sexuality. It's about sticking up for each other. You said you were sorry. Prove it."

He walked away without another word, barely noticing the way Karofsky's eyes followed him, calculating, considering.

Consider all you want, Blaine thought, walking back down the street towards the Hudson-Hummel residence. Just don't do what I did.

* * *

Blaine was a little surprised at how late it was by the time he opened the front door. Sunset had long since passed, the darkness light and cooling around him. He tugged off the hoodie in the refreshing warmth of the house and breathed in the peacefulness, satisfied. Karofsky isn't alone, his conscience pointed out, but neither are you.

"Where've you been?" Burt asked, looking up from where he had been reading a newspaper.

Blaine shrugged. "Making things right," he said elusively, wandering into the kitchen and spotting Kurt sitting at the table. "Hey."

Kurt started, glancing around at him in surprise, his expression a little haggard. "Hi," he said breathlessly. "You're back."

Blaine frowned as he slipped into the seat beside him. "Of course I am. And I'm sorry for just sort of storming out like that. I just . . . needed some fresh air."

Kurt nodded absentmindedly, gaze fixed on Blaine, seemingly unable to believe that Blaine was actually there. Doing his best not to worry about that, Blaine waited for him to say something.

He was surprised when Kurt yanked him into a hug instead.

"You need to know," he said so softly that Blaine doubted Burt even knew he was speaking, "that whatever happens with your parents, you're welcome here."

Blaine relaxed and wrapped his arms around Kurt in return, glad that nothing was genuinely upsetting Kurt.

Well, he amended, nothing I can't fix.

And he would fix it. He would.

Time to start following your own advice, Blaine thought wryly, slowly pulling back from Kurt so that he could look at him.

"I know," was all he said.

Kurt nodded.

We'll fix this.


	21. Chapter 21

Kurt had been surprised when he had woken up and realized that he was alone in the house. It had only taken him two minutes of absentminded searching before he came across a brief letter from Blaine stating that he was helping Mercedes out with some Halloween party preparations or another. Included in the brief message was an invitation to join them at his earliest convenience.

Rolling his eyes to himself, Kurt picked up a newly toasted English muffin and shrugged on one of his warmer coats. It was mere days before Halloween and, despite his best efforts to remain indifferent to the cooling climate, he had to concede defeat when a light frost appeared over the grass each morning. At least he was just as fond of his winter wardrobe as his other seasons.

Walking briskly to Mercedes' house to fend off the cold, he rapped the door twice smartly and stood back, waiting.

A minute later it creaked open, Blaine's beaming face appearing in the empty threshold. "Do you have the password?" he asked loftily.

"No coffee dates for a month?" Kurt suggested dryly.

Blaine lifted his eyes heavenward in supplication before opening the door. "Just be careful," he said with a grin, grabbing Kurt's arm before he could walk more than three steps forward. "Marcus did some awesome stuff to the floor, but I don't really want to see you face-plant anywhere."

"This is what you three have been doing all morning?" Kurt demanded, raising one eyebrow as he looked around the living room. Well. He knew it was Mercedes' living room, but with all of the additional machinery, he wouldn't have known at first glance that they were even indoors.

Blaine smiled cheekily at him. "It's productive and spirited. My kind of thing."

"Still," Kurt inched delicately into the dark maze-like structure, "how did you even do this? And Mercedes' parents approve?"

Blaine laughed. "Who do you think gave us the idea?" he asked. "Marcus handled all the technical stuff, and Mercedes and I did most of the grunt work. Well, he did most of the grunt work, too, but we contributed."

"Hey, white boy, I don't hear you carrying boxes," Mercedes called from below.

"I'll be down in a sec," Blaine called back.

"She's already turned you into the box carrier," Kurt said, shaking his head sadly and stepping gingerly around a slanted piece of floor. "How much did Marcus do?"

"He did everything," Blaine said with a grin. "Come on. Let me show you what's going on downstairs."

Blaine zigzagged through the room while Kurt sashayed after him, careful to step only where Blaine had. Ahead of him, Blaine clambered downstairs, disappearing in the semi-darkness below and calling back, "No, there's not a drop-off, you can come down."

Kurt picked his way delicately down the stairwell, stumbling a little over the final step. The entire basement was dark, making it impossible to make out anything more substantial than the vague shadow that was Blaine walking towards one corner. "Does it really need to be dark now?" he asked no one in particular.

"Yes," Mercedes said from somewhere up ahead. "I don't want to ruin the surprise."

There was a rumbling noise from nearby. "Hey, Kurt."

"Hi, Marcus. I hear you're the technical mastermind behind all this?"

"Mmhm. Anything for you guys, I'm in." Something heavy hit the ground as he dropped a crate on the floor. "Plus, I've been wanting to do this for ages, but my place isn't as much fun as here."

"Guess what?" a bubbly voice asked, an over-sized marmot leaping at him.

Kurt let out an undignified squeak, complaining, "Rachel!" as she wrapped her arms around him mid-leap.

"I am at twelve percent in the class presidential polls!"

Prying her arms off himself and shuffling aside, Kurt bumped into Blaine, who had reappeared with one of the empty crates in hand. "She dropped by this morning," he added apologetically to Kurt, who scowled at him as Rachel bounced on her heels. "She wanted to help, so. . . ." He shrugged, sidling away.

"That's great, Rachel," Kurt managed, carefully sidestepping another attempt at a hug.

"The third place candidate always wins," she said sagely. "It's practically written in politics to be so."

Kurt couldn't recall any examples of this phenomenon occurring off the top of his head, but he wisely realized that it would be more productive and less headache-inducing to simply nod along. "Then I'm happy for your non-success," he said. "Was it really necessary to tackle me?"

"I hugged you," Rachel said in a tone of such indignation that Kurt had to swallow a laugh.

Marcus' rumbling voice overshadowed his halting choke as he asked, "You two lovebirds done yet?"

Kurt rolled his eyes at the insinuation and wandered over, stepping lightly to avoid any unseen obstacles. "Still gay," he pointed out.

"I don't know what sort of drama you glee guys get up to," Marcus pointed out innocently, hammering something into place.

"Trust me, we haven't crossed that line yet," Kurt said. "Although Ms. Pillsbury thought the same thing when we told her about Julliard."

"Who?"

"College in New York."

"Ah. I'm not interested in the Big Apple -- too crowded. I kind of like it here, plus I've got that job at your dad's place. Mechanics are kind of my thing."

"Well, so far you're doing a great job," Blaine piped in, appearing at Kurt's shoulder so suddenly that he jumped before whirling around to swat Blaine's shoulder.

"Don't do that."

"Thanks, Andy," Marcus said, unperturbed, as he accepted the box Blaine had brought down.

Kurt looked around, squinting in the dark, before shaking his head and grabbing Blaine's arm. Without giving him an opportunity to protest, he told Mercedes, "See you later," and dragged his boyfriend back upstairs. He had to stand in the dimmed light of the living room for several moments to let his eyes adjust, carefully picking his way back over to the door, Blaine following willingly.

"So, what's the verdict?" Blaine asked once the door was shut beside them, squinting at the brightness outside.

Kurt shivered a little and said, "I'll tell you once we're inside," and made a beeline back for his house.

Blaine walked mutely beside him, seeming mostly untroubled by the cold. He had one of Kurt's scarves on, Kurt noted dryly, and a pair of gloves, so of course he was comfortable. Maybe two minutes into the walk Blaine casually reached out and slipped his gloved fingers around Kurt's wrist, buried in his coat pocket. Kurt conceded to pull it out, surprised at how very warm Blaine's hands were.

It wasn't until he was sitting back on his living room couch, feet tucked underneath himself and side pressed against Blaine's that he realized he had walked in public holding hands with Blaine. Of course, he did it in Westerville, but even that usually took longer before he could concede to do so, and it was never as completely off his mind as it had been then. In school, it was mostly forbidden territory, although in glee club he might tuck his hand into Blaine's or vice-versa.

This was different, though, since there hadn't been any walls separating them and the rest of the world. And judging by the tranquil expression on Blaine's face, he was none the wiser that what had happened was intriguing in any way.

Just to see what would happen, Kurt reached over and intertwined their fingers.

Yes, Blaine's hands were still warm in a way that made Kurt never want to let go, but they were also comfortable. There wasn't the flinch of hesitation Kurt half-expected, even though he knew he did it often enough. There wasn't any trepidation to speak of: Blaine simply squeezed his fingers back and said lightly, "Cold hands, warm heart."

Kurt smiled slightly. "What does that make you?" he asked.

Blaine shrugged a little. "Unoriginal?"

Kurt laughed.

* * *

At 12:21 PM, the phone rang.

Kurt stiffened a little involuntarily from where he had been looking over a Vogue magazine with Blaine, their eyes meeting briefly before Blaine wordlessly stood to answer it. Knowing that it was childish to make his boyfriend answer his home phone, Kurt couldn't help but be grateful that Blaine didn't mind. He straightened and craned his neck over to watch as Blaine picked up the phone off the receiver without even bother looking at the caller ID.

"Hello?" he asked, almost visibly bracing himself for a response. Kurt's dad usually didn't have reason to call during the day, and Finn and Carole rarely did so. Kurt's friends all knew to call his cell if they needed anything, and the majority of Lima seemed to ignore them anyway. Therefore, the only times the home phone rang were usually punctuated with unpleasant announcements or anonymous hate messages.

Blaine gripped the phone hard and closed his eyes. "Mom. Stop."

Kurt's heart dropped to his stomach as he ventured closer, Blaine sinking back as he sat heavily down in one of the kitchen chairs. Kurt waited while Blaine rubbed his forehead and breathed slowly, at last saying, "So what do you want me to do?"

"What's going on?" Kurt mouthed.

Blaine shook his head. "Later," he mouthed back. "Yes, I'm still here," he confirmed quietly, presumably to a question voicing the contrary, and continued listening intently, eyes closed.

"Listen," he said softly, "I'm glad to hear that. Really. But . . ." He dropped a hand soundlessly to the table, clenching it in frustration. "I don't know."

More talking. Probably Emily trying to convince him that whatever had happened was the best decision, the right decision, the quick beautiful solution to the train wreck that was Blaine's relationship with his parents.

He stood up after about five minutes and disappeared into the basement. Kurt, although tempted, left him be.

What's going on? he wondered silently, slowly getting back up and returning to the Vogue magazine.

He couldn't focus, though, not knowing that Blaine was on the phone with his mother for the first time in more than two weeks.

Listening for any changes in the conversation below, he could hear the quiet, considering tone Blaine used. Other than that, he was clueless as to what was happening, unsure if it would be a change for better or for worse.

At last Blaine emerged, looking a little more ragged than he had before as he ran a hand through his hair and set the phone down on the receiver. He cleared his throat.

"She said she wants to talk. In person."

He looked at Kurt, indecision plain in his expression.

"I'll drive," Kurt said softly.

Blaine wordlessly picked up his coat.

* * *

"Blaine. Sweetheart."

Blaine winced a little at the pet name, stepping around his mother into the house. It was almost exactly as he remembered it, but it felt different somehow. Not as lived in, not as real. Like someone had actually died, rather than almost.

Stop it, he chided himself.

He wandered into the living room, his mother's laptop perched on the coffee table. It was a sign of her receptiveness that she had put it down so long for him. Blaine had known from the way she had talked so fervently on the phone that she wasn't reading it then, either.

Slowly, he climbed the stairs, feeling his mother's gaze on his back, anxiously watching.

His room was exactly as he had left it. The first thing he noticed was his phone lying on the floor just beside his bed, accidentally dropped during a morning routine and forgotten since. Gingerly, he walked over and picked it up, somewhat worried about what he would see. Clicking the screen, he waited for it to come to life.

Then he laughed a little as he realized the battery was dead. Even the most inactive phone tended to drain after more than two weeks of being on, and Blaine knew that it had only been two-thirds full when he last used it.

Pocketing it, resolving to charge it later, he sat on the edge of his bed, feeling it give slightly beneath him, accepting its owner.

He hadn't been in his own room for more than two weeks. Somehow, the knowledge seemed even heavier then that he was actually there than it had when he was at Kurt's house. Aches that he hadn't known existed seemed to form all over his spine, urging him to lie down and soak in the comfort of his own bed for once. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence, waiting.

Was that the moment where he forgave them? Where he told them that the past four years hadn't mattered, that he had been fine eighty percent of the time and that meant it cancelled out the other twenty where he hadn't? Where he accepted the tentative truce his mother wanted to form?

No, Blaine decided, standing and stretching muscles that felt even sorer. As much as he wanted to lie back and pretend that it was his home, furniture and familiarity did not make a house a home. He picked up his laptop, tucked it into its leather case, and slung it over one shoulder. Surveying the rest of the room, he left the rest of it untouched, eerily unchanged.

This isn't home. Not anymore.

The Blaine that his parents had raised for fourteen years no longer existed. It wasn't his room anymore, not in the sense that he could ever return there as more than a temporary boarder.

He closed the door quietly behind him and padded back downstairs.

His mother looked at him with sad, resigned eyes, her arms held out to him.

Blaine didn't know if the sudden thickness in his throat was from the urge to laugh or cry.

Why couldn't you have just done that four years ago? he wondered, stepping forward and gingerly hugging her back. Why couldn't you have just been my mom then?

He didn't have a time machine, and as he backed away he knew that it was only a tiny step in the right direction.

They both still needed time alone, time to think.

Will we ever have time together again? Blaine wondered, stepping back through the door and walking over to Kurt's Navigator. Kurt had originally offered to come inside with him, but Blaine had shaken his head and said it would be easier that way. Easier, maybe. Simpler? Not really.

Kurt mercifully didn't ask what had happened as he opened his door and stepped inside. He simply waited for Blaine to buckle into the passenger's seat before driving, the silence stretching between them.

Blaine tried to imagine what life would be like if his issues with his parents didn't resolve. What it would be like to graduate high school without either of his parents present. What it would be like without his parents watching him head off for college. What it would be like growing up, facing the trials and tribulations without a mom or dad to fall back on.

He closed his eyes.

What he could imagine was Burt and Carole being there, doing all of that. With Kurt.

They'd be there for you too, you know.

Blaine sighed silently to himself.

Maybe, he allowed.

Maybe.

* * *

"Rachel, this is kind of scary," Blaine admitted, looking at the elaborate day-by-day polling system Rachel had worked out.

"I'm being prepared," she corrected, snapping the folder shut and sitting across from him. He had been at the Lima Bean, looking for a wake-me-up coffee, only to bump into Finn's girlfriend on the way. She had immediately latched onto him and, without any excuses, Blaine had listened to her talk. "I know exactly how influential this will be on my future and I have no intention of falling behind."

"Well, that's great," Blaine hedged, somewhat surprised at how willing she was to reveal her 'strategy' to him, especially since she knew he was Kurt's boyfriend. "I'm glad you're on top of it."

Rachel beamed.

"So I can count on your vote?"

"Um. . . ."

"Because as my confidant it is now your moral obligation to help me on my pathway to stardom," she said seriously. "Otherwise, my dreams will be crushed."

Blaine blinked and stirred his coffee carefully. This is where understanding girls would be nice.

"I don't think your dreams would be crushed," he said delicately.

She shook her head almost sadly. "My eligibility to NYADA is dependent on how many class offices I hold during high school," she said. "Without your vote, I risk failure and thus the entirety of my future will come crumbling down."

"Well . . . couldn't you find a different confidant?"

Rachel rolled her eyes as though he was being deliberately slow. "You've already accepted. Either you accept or I will be forced to treat you as the competition."

"I'm not even running," Blaine pointed out lightly.

Looking completely unaffected, Rachel shook her head again. "Irrelevant. You have two options, Blaine Warbler, and you've already chosen one side."

He frowned and managed, "I thought I was automatically on Kurt's side."

"Only in the boyfriend department. However, you are fair game politically."

Blaine's brow furrowed. "So Finn's fair game--?"

"Finn's on my side," Rachel said firmly.

Blaine rubbed his neck. "I'm not following," he admitted.

"You don't need to," Rachel assured, picking up her binder. "Voting for me on the first will be sufficient."

"Rachel, whatever your latest enslavement plot is, know that it doesn't count if I'm not present," a new voice slipped in coolly. Blaine craned his neck around and smiled a little. Kurt unraveled his scarf somewhat so it wasn't hugging his neck so much and sat down, a coffee already in his hand. "Besides, you should know that I've totally won over Finn with cookies, so I would be more focused on him."

Rachel looked scandalized. "You went after Finn?"

"You went after Blaine," Kurt pointed out, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, but Finn?"

"He's fair game," Kurt said with a shrug. "If you want to do something useful, then I would focus on converting him back to your side, because on the first, he's voting for me."

Without further prompting, Rachel all but vanished on the spot, her binder clutched high in her arms, a determined expression on her face.

"Annnd Finn's about to get a fabulous impromptu make-out session," Kurt said, shaking his head as he took a sip of coffee. He wrinkled his nose a moment later. "Gross," he said on both accounts, casually reaching over and taking Blaine's coffee. "So how is your morning going?"

"Fine," Blaine replied, rolling his eyes at Kurt's antics. "And how is my coffee choice?" he asked, leaning his head on his palms and resting his elbows on the table.

Looking thoughtful, Kurt shrugged. "Unoriginal but with overall good tastes," Kurt said, setting the coffee down, "and much better than mine. It's flat."

"Gross," Blaine agreed.

"You need to stay away from Rachel," Kurt went on. "She's in full campaign mode. It's all B-for-P now." He waved a hand in an elaborate gesture.

"B-for-P?" Blaine repeated dryly.

"Berry-for-President." He shook his head. "What are you doing here so early, anyway? I thought you slept in until noon on the weekends."

"Ten," Blaine corrected, rolling his eyes, "and I wanted coffee. Which you stole."

"You were confiding with Rachel behind my back," Kurt said simply. "It merited punishment."

It was Blaine's turn to roll his eyes. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to say no to that girl?"

"No," Kurt said truthfully.

Slipping his fingers around his coffee and sliding it back over to his side, Blaine asked, "So what took you so long? I thought you were a morning person."

Kurt perked up instantly. "I talked with Nick this morning."

Blaine waited, expecting him to continue, before at last prompting, "And . . . ?"

"Did you know there's a new gay Warbler?"

Blaine's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Really."

"Mmhm." Kurt grinned. "He's also lead."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "A usurper?"

"Replacement is more likely," Kurt corrected. "Nick says he's already got everybody wrapped around his finger. Sound familiar?" He tilted his gaze pointedly at Blaine.

"I didn't start out that way," Blaine pointed out, silently wondering what this new guy was like if he could have wrangled the Warblers under his rule already. It has been a few weeks, his logical side pointed out. Plenty of time for someone new to move in. "Any name?" he added.

"Nick said it was a secret," Kurt said, shaking his head, "but he invited us to come visit on Monday, 'if we aren't intimidated by the thought of their sheer awesomeness.'"

"Well, I was going to say 'no' but now I can't possibly," Blaine said, shaking his head in mock-distress. "A direct challenge? That's way too much to resist."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" Kurt mocked lightly. "So who do you think he is?"

Blaine cupped his chin in one hand. "I don't know. Probably a transfer."

"Ah. May the parallelism commence."

Blaine tilted his head at him. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on," Kurt said, sliding Blaine's coffee away smoothly. "He's the new lead, he's gay, and he's a transfer. And I bet you he's attractive."

"Just remember that you're my boyfriend," Blaine reminded dryly.

"And he probably has a gorgeous voice," Kurt said, grinning over the lip of the coffee. "And brown eyes. And a short stature."

"I'm not short," Blaine grumbled.

"Of course you aren't. You're just undersized."

"So much better."

"Hobbit-like?"

"Colder," Blaine said, tugging the coffee back for a second time.

"He probably likes climbing on furniture, too."

"Come on. I patented that one."

Kurt laughed a little. "Fine, fine. But he's probably your clone in every other way."

"Yay," Blaine said sarcastically, glancing at the remnants of his coffee and sighing. "Did you really drink all of my coffee?"

"No," Kurt said, straight-faced.

"Jerk."

"Hobbit."

They scowled at each other, but Blaine ended up laughing, which ruined the illusion completely. "Come on. I have to go help Mercedes and Marcus out with decorating."

"Who said I wanted to help?" Kurt said, nevertheless standing up when Blaine did.

Blaine pretended to think about that. "Because it's fun?"

Kurt rolled his eyes as they stepped out of the coffee shop, casually slipping his hand into Blaine's a moment later. "Try again."

Blaine looked upward in consideration. "Because it's awesome?"

Kurt shook his head, pulling him over so they were standing along the side of the building, out of sight of most passerby. "How about," he said softly, linking both their hands, "because I love you and that it doesn't matter who the new Warblers got to be lead for them?"

Blaine smiled slightly. "Only that?" he asked lightly.

Kurt shook his head, squeezing Blaine's hands before releasing one and pressing a light kiss to his cheek, tugging him forward. "Come on, you. Let's go help Mercedes before I decide this guy is better than you."

Blaine huffed. "Impossible."

"Just wait," Kurt said. "You never know."


	22. Chapter 22

"That looks good," Blaine commented, leaning over Nick's shoulder to look at the set-list and grinning.

Nick snapped the folder shut and scowled at him. He looked exactly as he had when Blaine left -- still in the Dalton Academy uniform, still with slightly messy brown hair and an almost wistful expression on his face -- aside from a new broadness to his shoulders, a new maturity. Someone's been promoted, Blaine thought with an inward smile. "Espionage? Really, Blaine?" Nick demanded, attempting to continue reviewing the set-list without attracting Blaine's gaze.

"Of course," Blaine said primly, sliding around so he was sitting on the arm of the chair and tilting his head to continue reading the set-list. "I presume you're on the council?" he added nonchalantly.

Nick's entire demeanor changed, a broad grin splitting his face. "How'd you know?"

Blaine's immediate response would have been the set-list, but since every Warbler received a copy of the set-list after a point and that point had easily passed (usually by the third week or so of the newest season), that excuse was gone.

He mimed lock-and-keying his mouth instead.

"I practically lived with Wes and David," he added. "Of course I know when someone's elected. Congratulations. Let me guess -- Jeff's in on it, too?"

Nick shook his head, not actually negating the claim, just in general disbelief. He grinned at Blaine as he tucked his folder under one arm and looked up at him, eyeing his Dalton attire. Blaine knew that he wasn't supposed to be wearing the blazer, but the faculty had given him the go ahead and none of the Warblers would mind, so he'd gone along with it. He raised his eyebrows as though daring Nick to comment. The latter shrugged a little.

"Mmhm," he said at last. "He's not head, though. New guy picked up that spot: Jacob Trume."

"Ah." Blaine sorted through his mental list of Warblers and came up blank. "Where's he from?"

"Dalton," Nick said simply. "He laid low: we didn't even notice him on the register until a few weeks ago. One of his English teachers called him out when he sang something for a project and told him he should check us out." He shrugged again. "He's good," was all he said, "but he likes being behind the wheel rather than in the spotlight, so he's head councilor. Unanimous vote."

Blaine's eyebrows lifted a little higher. "Unanimous?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yeah," Nick said, sounding completely unsurprised by this revelation. "It's different around here without you vets around. Two-thirds of these guys don't even remember any of the seniors before us, and half are underclassmen. I feel old," Nick joked, "and I'm only seventeen."

"Ancient," Blaine agreed sagely. "Do you have your will drawn?"

Nick rolled his eyes and nudged his knee, nearly off-balancing him. "Ha ha. You joke now, just wait until competition. We're pulling out all the stops this year, Blaine. Consider yourself warned." Then, with a grin barely quirking his lips, he added, "Wait till you meet our new lead."

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Blaine asked, curious.

Nick shook his head, wearing that I'm not telling you look so clearly Blaine felt tempted to roll his eyes. "You'll see," he said almost gravely.

Blaine hopped off the chair and glanced around the senior commons, tapping the arm in mock-thought. "Any hints?" he asked.

"You won't need any," Nick assured, tugging out his set-list and looking it over. "Just stick around long enough. You can't miss him."

Unable to resist a challenge like that, Blaine started walking.

"What are you doing here?" a surprised voice asked, followed by Trent Nixon a moment later.

Blaine grinned at him, glad for another familiar face, even if said face was marred by a frown of confusion. "Visiting," he said truthfully. "I wanted to see how things were going. And Nick sort of invited me." He had invited Kurt, too, but apparently something was up with Finn and Rachel and he was acting as mediator in order to keep peace at the Hudson-Hummel house. Which basically meant fending Finn off until he figured things out with Rachel so that she didn't come over and have a melt-down there. Having offered to stay, Blaine had been somewhat grateful when Kurt said that no, he could handle it and Blaine could still visit the Warblers that day.

I know you miss them, was clear in his eyes, and I know you're curious. So go.

Blaine had argued a little longer before conceding to go alone.

He was glad that he had since it meant that he could look freely and bump into people like Nick and Trent without having to worry about anyone else interrupting him.

Kurt doesn't interrupt you, he reminded himself, rolling his eyes.

"Ah," Trent said delicately before grinning at him. "In that case, have you seen the new guy?"

Blaine checked a sigh of exasperation. "Nick told me I'd have to find him on my own. Any hints?"

"Nope," Trent said, sounding cheerful. "Although," he added, already walking backwards down the hall, a grin on his face, "it's exactly where you wouldn't expect him to be."

Well, that's helpful, Blaine thought sarcastically. "Thanks," he added dryly as Trent continued his backwards pace. "I'll be sure to look there."

Nodding, Trent disappeared around a hallway, leaving Blaine alone once more, only a few Dalton Academy students mingling around. They didn't pay him any mind as he walked past, deciding that checking out the second floor would be a good start.

Then he paused. If he's a boarder, he's probably near the dorms, he thought reasonably, doubling back towards the senior alcove.

It wasn't until he was standing in the midst of the first hallway that he remembered he couldn't get in without a key, and now his was outdated. Smiling slightly to himself, he turned around and started walking again.

They wouldn't have told me somewhere I couldn't reach if they wanted me to figure this out on my own. So, he's not in the dorms. Then: Of course he wouldn't be in the dorms. Counter-intuitive, Blaine. So where wouldn't he be?

He couldn't think of any places that Warblers in general avoided -- if juniors and seniors dominated Dalton, then Warblers ruled everything -- so he just started walking again, wondering if they were deliberately sending him in circles.

I don't even know what this guy looks like. How am I supposed to find him?

That, he supposed, was half the challenge. At least the Warblers had the pin on their blazers marking them out from other students: he could eliminate anyone without a pin automatically.

Wandering for maybe ten more minutes, Blaine stepped into the Warblers' hall and looked around.

No one.

Letting his fingers graze the back of one of the leather couches as he walked, he stepped up to the council bench and stared at the gavel that Wes had once wielded, the seats David and Thad had once held. There was an eerie sense of something missing, like someone too important to replace had left. An opportunity vanished, perhaps.

Blaine could never imagine himself sitting behind the bench even if it held more sway over the Warblers' decisions. His position had been almost as prestigious -- more so, in some ways -- to be the lead Warbler. He had such sway over the Warblers that the council may not have existed, yet if he had sat behind the bench he would have been reduced to making the selections but surrendering the right to be a soloist. It was the only way to balance out the prestige the council members had against the rest of the Warblers: if you were on the council, you couldn't be a soloist.

"So the rumors are true," a calm voice said behind him.

Blaine turned slowly, untroubled, and left one hand resting on the council bench casually. "Trume?"

Jacob Trume inclined his head. He was average height and unremarkable in feature, but his voice held authority.

"You must be Blaine," he said, venturing forward, shoulders set. Since he was average height, it still placed him at around Kurt's height, which meant that he stood a couple inches taller than Blaine. He had blonde hair and light green eyes, reminding Blaine vaguely of an older, more mature Jeff. The eye color was wrong, but the resemblance was striking and immediate: if Blaine didn't know better, then he would have sworn they were brothers, relatives at the very least.

Maybe they are, Blaine mused. It wasn't impossible -- divorced parents, deceased parents, name changes, et cetera -- but he would have to ask Jeff for confirmation.

"Jacob Trume," Trume said, extending a hand. Blaine relinquished his light hold on the desk and shook back.

"Blaine Anderson," he replied, and for one absurd moment he almost said Warbler. Not anymore, he reminded himself. Never again. "I hear that you're the new head council member?"

Trume hid a slight smile. "Perceptive."

"Informed," Blaine corrected. "I spoke with Nick earlier." He shrugged modestly. "He spoke well of you."

Trume didn't bother hide his smile this time. "I may have made an impression on the Warblers, yes," he said. "I'm more curious about you. I thought you transferred?"

"I did. I'm just visiting."

Trume's eyes were briefly opaque, evidently wondering what Blaine's motives were.

"I wanted to see some friends," he said.

"Mmm," Trume said, trailing his fingers over the gavel as he picked it up. "So you came to the Warbler hall?"

"I'm looking for someone," Blaine added elusively.

Trume huffed a little in amusement. "Courtyard," was all he said. "Up."

Then he set the gavel down, intoned, "Nice to meet you, Blaine," and walked away.

Blaine blinked at his back, frowning.

He knew where the courtyard was -- ground floor -- so the order seemed contradictory. Deciding he would go to the courtyard first and work out the rest of the hint later (if it even was a hint), he started walking.

* * *

"So you're Blaine Warbler."

Blaine looked up and -- oh. Hello, new guy.

Blue eyes stared him down. They weren't light like Kurt's or anyone else's he'd ever seen: they were . . . dark. Almost brown, even.

And now you're staring, Blaine reminded himself, making an effort to look aside or at least at something other than his eyes.

The new Warbler continued staring at him unabashedly, gaze drifting downward and lingering before slowly raking back up. From his vantage point on the roof of the lowest building (still roughly eight feet off the ground, a fair feat for anyone), it made Blaine feel like he was standing in the center of a spotlight. He opened his mouth to say something and ended up looking at the new guy's eyes again.

Um. Wow.

"You coming up?" the new guy asked, one bare arm lazily folded underneath his head. Blaine flushed slightly -- he's not even wearing a shirt -- before realizing that he'd somehow moved to obey.

So yes, maybe he did have a furniture climbing obsession and Kurt had been right. But that was practically a challenge and, well, Blaine was curious to see what would happen if he managed it.

Besides, if the new guy could get up there, he could, too. He wasn't Blaine Anderson because he let simple tasks daunt him.

A running start wouldn't do anything; jumping was similarly out of consideration.

Blaine walked over, picked up one of the small rounded tables, and set it down beside the wall. The new guy watched him with lazy eyes as he pulled over a metal chair and placed it next to the table, casually climbing on top of the chair, stepping onto the table with similar ease. A lower center of gravity helping him balance, he braced himself and leaped. His fingers caught on the edge of the wall, the table below wobbling precariously, the new guy watching him with speculative eyes all the while. Hauling himself up, using a narrow grove in the wall to brace his feet, he clambered on top, grinning in satisfaction as he sat back on his haunches.

"Very nice," the new Warbler drawled, rolling over on the towel he'd brought up and sliding a pair of dark sunglasses down his hair so they were covering his eyes instead. "Can you do anything else?"

"Who are you?" Blaine asked, brushing his hands off, for the first time considering what it would be like if someone caught them up here. You'll probably be banned from visiting, his rational side reminded. Half of him demanded that he get down and deny whatever the new guy said about climbing up in the first place; the more dominant half rolled its metaphorical eyes and sat back on its haunches as well.

Let's see how this goes.

"Your replacement," the other boy said without batting an eyelash.

Blaine rolled his eyes. "No name?"

"No," he said seriously. "Why does it matter to you? I thought you were the competition."

"I am," Blaine said.

He waited, his gaze involuntarily straying back towards the courtyard, alert in case someone did happen to come by. This probably looks bad, his rational side chastised. You're sitting on a roof with a shirtless gay man.

Then: Kurt is going to kill you if you don't get down right now.

"All right," the new guy said suddenly, breaking his train of thought. "You're one of those people." He tilted his head back, looking skyward, before putting on a smirk and extending a hand. "Hi. I'm Sebastian. You're hot. Can we stop talking now?"

Blaine flushed even as he took the hand. "I'm taken," he said pointedly.

Sebastian laughed, one arm still folded under his head, the other shaking Blaine's hand. "Hot and naïve. Let me guess. Virgin?"

Blaine tried to tug his hand free, scandalized, but Sebastian tugged him effortlessly forward, forcing him to either dig in a hand into the roof or sprawl forward completely. Blaine barely managed the former, caught off guard. "Come on, Anderson, I was told you were stronger than that," Sebastian goaded.

He released Blaine's hand a heartbeat before Blaine would have kneed him in retaliation, deftly catching the swipe of his legs underneath one of his ankles. "At least you're sort of fun," Sebastian said, shaking his head slightly.

Blaine shoved himself back, scowling. "You're the new lead for the Warblers?" he demanded incredulously, amazed that he hadn't fully retreated yet. Sebastian's gaze was almost visible beneath the dark sunglasses, angled just so that Blaine couldn't see whether he was staring at him or over his shoulder. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew anyway.

"Titles make this awkward," Sebastian said at last, leaning back on his heels as he sat up suddenly. And oh, he was actually tall, long and lean and bare-chested, and Blaine mentally kicked himself for letting his gaze stray reflexively to that chest as Sebastian stretched. "Can we just move on?" he asked, sounding almost bored, as he eyed Blaine. "Or are you that shy?"

"I'm taken."

"Either you're dating a girl," Sebastian drawled, "or a prude. Either way, I can make this better, if you would stop being a prude."

"I can't believe the Warblers chose you as their lead," Blaine said, backing away. Sebastian casually followed his retreat, angled just so that Blaine knew any passerby would think he was leaning over him. Blaine, get off the roof before someone does walk by.

"They're cute, aren't they? I heard you had them wrapped around your finger when you were around. Tall orders to fill." Then, looking up and down Blaine pointedly, he amended, "Well, tall being relative."

"Ha ha," Blaine snapped, doing his best to keep an eye on Sebastian and the courtyard. He had backed himself into the center of it, a difficult vantage point for anyone below to see them in. There. Now, at least, if someone walked by they wouldn't immediately notice them. That would curb the rumor mill, wouldn't it?

Get off the roof!

Sebastian shook his head at him as he shuffled towards the edge, intent on putting this whole thing to an end. As long as he just hopped off and no one saw, then he could pretend this conversation had never happened. And kill Nick, Trent, and Trume for sending me here, he thought with a scowl. They knew he was taken. What made them think it was a good idea for him to talk with Sebastian?

Well, you were the one who climbed on the roof, Blaine's rational side pointed out smugly. If you had just stayed down--

Then Sebastian moaned, low and guttural and loud, and Blaine couldn't even speak as Jeff walked by the courtyard entrance and gaped at him.

He didn't, was all Blaine could think as he turned around slowly and saw Sebastian slipping his shirt on casually, smirking at him.

The game has begun.

Have fun, Sebastian mouthed, slipping off the other side of the roof and disappearing.

Jeff stared at Blaine in honest disbelief, shock and surprise mingled on his expression, and then bolted.

While the jarring eight foot drop did momentarily off-balance him, Blaine was full out sprinting after him a moment later.

Damn it.

* * *

Blaine probably broke about seven rules keeping up with Jeff, who was flat-out running across the grounds. At last, just before the grass ended and the halls began, he leapt forward and tackled him.

If it had been a movie, then they would have rolled comically a few times before coming to their own separate halts. The reality was simpler: Jeff went down and Blaine crashed on top of him.

"Umph," Blaine wheezed while Jeff made a strangled sound and tried to push him off.

"Damn, Blaine," was all he said.

"Smile," Sebastian said as he appeared, holding up his phone and pressing a button.

Momentarily torn, Blaine spent about three seconds lying uselessly in the grass, still partially tangled with Jeff (and why did he have to be sweaty and flustered and between his legs?) before rolling onto his side and wobbling back to his feet.

"You--" he snarled.

"What's your boy's number?" Sebastian asked with a grin, already looking like he was texting someone.

"What?" Jeff sputtered, scrambling to his feet. "We're not -- it's not--"

"You're gay, he's gay. He's hot, you're not. Which means I'm not above sending this," Sebastian explained as calmly as though he was talking about the weather.

Blaine advanced, Sebastian dancing back nimbly. "No one's going to believe you."

"And if I show this to the faculty?" Sebastian asked, tapping his lip and grinning. "Ooh, sorry, boys. No PDA allowed. That's at least a detention for you," he nodded at Jeff, "and probably a visiting ban for you," he smirked at Blaine.

"I wasn't -- you two--" Jeff continued, looking wounded as he stared at Blaine.

"No," Blaine said firmly, "we weren't--"

"Of course we were," Sebastian interrupted, rolling his eyes as he pressed the send button. Blaine snatched at his phone, Sebastian pocketing it with ease and raising his eyebrows as though to say I dare you to take it.

Blaine snarled and backed off, clenching his hands.

"Jeff, you know I'm dating Kurt," Blaine said, turning to Jeff.

"Kurt, huh?" Sebastian said, sidling up and standing almost abrasively close. "Hope I spelled it right," he breathed with such an air of superiority Blaine wanted to punch him.

"You don't have his number," Blaine said in a low voice.

"Don't need it, babe. Ever heard of Bump? It's an app that lets you bump phones with someone else and exchange information. I switched some contacts with Nick earlier, and he just happened to slip Kurt's in there. Now, I don't think he meant it on purpose, but . . ." He shrugged and shook his head almost sadly. "Seemed like a fair guess. I sent it to everyone to be safe, so you're all set."

Blaine's phone vibrated in his pocket and he groaned.

"All I heard was someone moaning on the roof," Jeff said, holding up his hands as though to display his innocence, flushing to his hairline.

"That was me," Sebastian said, ducking an elbow Blaine tried to plant in his ribs. "Blaine's a tease and I just couldn't take it."

"They're not going to believe you," Blaine said quietly.

"Don't worry, babe. I'm not new to this. They'll believe me, because I know how this works. You'll believe me," Sebastian assured, squeezing his shoulder as though he was telling Blaine that he could have a present if he behaved. "How many boyfriends have you even had?" he added, leaning in close enough that Blaine could feel his breath on his ear, fists clenched while Jeff stood by, wide-eyed, uncertain. "Don't worry. I've got enough experience for both of us."

"We're not dating," Blaine interrupted loudly.

Sebastian laughed again. "We don't have to be. I like friends with benefits."

Blaine did actually shove him then.

"Jeff, we're not . . . together. In any way," Blaine added sharply.

Sebastian simply shook his head, blue eyes staring Blaine down.

He doesn't want this to be over, Blaine realized with a slight jolt. He likes that this is a game.

His pocket vibrated again. He closed his eyes.

"Your boy's texting," Sebastian pointed out mildly.

The way he said your boy made Blaine wince. It was possessive in a way that just didn't fit his relationship with Kurt at all, like all they should be doing was . . . well.

"Let me know what you decide," Sebastian continued casually, still too close for comfort. Blaine could almost see him smirk before he added, "But don't keep me too long, babe."

Blaine snarled. "Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say, babe." He disappeared inside, Blaine glaring after him, Jeff shifting from one foot to the other on the grass.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice weak and confused.

"I don't know," Blaine lied. A game. That's what's going on. "But whatever Sebastian says, nothing happened. And I'm serious, Jeff. We were just . . ." Sitting on a roof talking together. While he was shirtless. Yep. Totally platonic. "Talking," he finished lamely.

Jeff stared at him, uncertain. "I saw Sebastian getting up," he hedged as though the words pained him. "He was pulling on a shirt."

Blaine suppressed a wince. That would be a give away about his nonexistent guilt, and he knew that he had to keep Jeff on his side -- he was the only eyewitness, after all, other than himself and Sebastian -- if he was going to keep this from spiraling out of control.

"Nothing happened," he repeated seriously. "He set me up."

And that was as simple as it was, really. He set me up, and you fell for it.

Then: Did the others know? Or were they innocent?

Jeff was staring at him, still looking unconvinced, before he shook his head slightly. "I . . . I don't know. I trust you, Blaine, but . . ." He shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. "Can we forget that I saw that?"

"Yes," Blaine said emphatically. Jeff's face looked even more pained as though Blaine's fervency somehow confirmed his guilt, but Blaine shook his head before he could continue that line of thought. "Sebastian set me up. If anyone asks, that's all that happened."

Jeff nodded, stepping around him and looking a little relieved to be stepping back inside Dalton.

It wasn't until Blaine pulled out his phone to see the next message that he realized just how loosely the 'set up' could be interpreted.

Three words: What's going on?

Blaine closed his eyes, forced himself to take a breath, and clicked call instead of respond.

* * *

Kurt had been barricading the front door with chairs when his phone vibrated. Rachel had insisted on coming over at least four times already, usually demanding to see Finn for his 'confirmed vote' for the class presidential election. While Kurt was beginning to suspect that this election was the last thing any of them needed, he definitely knew that he didn't want Rachel Berry raining down on him all morning while he attempted to work through his own campaigning strategies with Mercedes, bouncing off Halloween ideas whenever Rachel reached a lull in her demands to see Finn. So he had barricaded the doors with chairs, an effective barrier to Rachel.

Finn was looking slightly pained as he continued playing Call of Duty on the couch, even though Kurt sourly thought he didn't look nearly as remorseful as he should.

This is your girlfriend, he thought, scowling as he pulled out his phone, eager for something to cheer him up. Mercedes' place was all decked out, and they were planning on getting a group of the New Directions together (probably the entire group, but Mercedes was willing to leave out Rachel if she continued to be impossible) and having a big Halloween party that way.

It wasn't Mercedes. He frowned at the unknown number, fingers hesitating over the accept button.

His instincts told him 'no,' but he knew that if someone needed something from him and was borrowing a different phone, he didn't want to ignore it. Still, this was the time when he usually preferred Blaine to answer, if only because it would put a barrier between him and the hate mail.

Stop it. You should be able to handle this. You did have a life before Blaine.

Clicking the accept button, his eyebrow shot up as he saw the picture.

What is that? was his first thought. He pulled up a message and sent the same to Blaine before returning to the picture, dumbfounded.

Blaine and Jeff were lying on the ground, surprise written clear in their expressions, faces flushed and almost embarrassed. The way Blaine was lying between Jeff's legs, almost pinned on top of him, was . . . suggestive.

Kurt waited thirty seconds for a response to the first message before typing out another. Blaine? Are you there?

This is a joke. Blaine wasn't . . . making out with Jeff.

The thought made his stomach churn.

Three full minutes passed. No response.

Closing his eyes, Kurt punched out one last message. What's going on?

Barely five seconds passed before his phone vibrated, a call from Blaine showing up.

Kurt hesitated, half-tempted to wait and text him back, and then he hurried upstairs and hit the accept on the fourth ring. "Hello?" he asked tentatively, sitting on the edge of his bed and waiting.

He could almost hear Blaine fisting his hair in frustration on the other end, saying slowly, "Hi, Kurt. Did you just get a text from an unknown number?"

Yes, Kurt thought. Of course I did. "Yes," he repeated aloud. Then, forgoing beating around the bush: "Blaine, what's going on?"

Blaine sighed. "That was from Sebastian. He's the new lead Warbler and he . . . he kind of set me up."

Kurt frowned, concerned by the harassed note in Blaine's voice. "What did he do?"

"He -- he was sitting on a roof and I was stupid and then he just -- and Jeff walked by so I ran after him but then--"

"He was sitting on a roof?" Kurt repeated incredulously.

"Yes, and it was stupid but I -- I don't know, he set me up and Jeff walked by and then he took the picture."

Kurt wasn't following. "I still don't get what you're saying," he said. "What happened?"

A long pause. "Sebastian and I were sitting on a roof," Blaine said at last. "We started talking, he started . . . flirting I guess would be the word for it -- but it wasn't like that!" he hurried to assure.

"Okay," Kurt said slowly. He could ask Blaine for a more detailed explanation later, since right now he just needed confirmation that Blaine hadn't actually done what the picture looked like. Or done something with this Sebastian guy, either. "Then what?"

"I was going to get off but then he moaned--"

Kurt made a strangled noise. "What were you two doing, exactly? Flirting?"

"Kurt, he set me up," Blaine said, an almost desperate emphasis on the words that calmed some of Kurt's nerves. Why was he on the roof with him? Why were they flirting? his less-convinced side demanded. Pushing those thoughts aside, he listened, doing his best to be open-minded. I trust Blaine, he reminded himself. Blaine wouldn't be this stupid.

Jeremiah. Rachel. Blaine's been stupid before, Kurt, all because he had too many drinks or some guy smiled at him while he was getting coffee.

"He did it on purpose," Blaine went on. "I didn't do anything, and Jeff walked by and thought that -- he thought exactly what you probably just thought and took off."

"So how did you end up--?"

"I tackled him," Blaine admitted. Kurt rubbed his forehead. "He ran, so I ran after him and then we both went down and Sebastian appeared and he took the picture."

Feeling somewhat calmed -- that makes sense -- Kurt leaned back. "So . . . you two didn't . . . ?"

"No," Blaine said seriously. A pause, sounding like he had dragged his hand through his hair, before he said, "It was Sebastian's fault. If he sends you anything else, he's lying."

A pause, then a new voice: "You must be Blaine's boy. Hi. I'm the Warbler in question."

"Get off the phone," Kurt snarled.

"Sebastian--"

"Relax, babe, I'll be civil. So. Want to meet?"

Kurt actually rolled his eyes. "No, I don't want to meet. Put Blaine back on the phone."

"Well, aren't you possessive. And he's preoccupied."

"Sebastian--"

"Don't you just love the way he says my name?"

Kurt stood up. "I'm coming over," he said seriously. Finn looked up at him as he climbed downstairs, all but tearing through the barricade he had made in front of the door.

A soft, pleasant laugh. "Sure thing. We should be done by then."

"Give me--"

"Dude, what the hell?" Finn asked at last, pausing long enough in his game to notice Kurt pulling aside the last chairs of his barricade.

"Damn it, give that back--"

"Mmm, you're sexy when you swear. See you here, Blaine's boy."

"Hey, don't hang--"

Click.

* * *

Dave gritted his teeth, bracing himself for what had to be done. Both his parents were sitting in the living room mindlessly watching some news channel, his dad going on about work and his mom listening in silence to his opinions on the latest politics. Ever since they had heard about his talk with prep boy and Hummel and gotten the message from the police thanking him for his statement about Jeremy Bletcher, they had started asking him why he was so concerned about a gay boy (and his boyfriend) that he had previously bullied.

He didn't even remember half of that conversation: all he remembered was it slowly escalating, his dad musingly piecing together more and more of the things he tried to keep hidden and irrelevant (you never seem to have a girlfriend, I don't think I've even heard you talking about girls you like), until at last it had just slipped out.

"It's because I'm gay!" he'd snapped.

The silence afterward had been absolute.

His mom had looked shocked, almost tearful, as she shied away from him, whispering, "What?" like she couldn't believe it, couldn't entertain the possibility.

His dad had stared, covered his face with a hand, and breathed in raggedly. The first words out of his mouth were, "You're not serious."

Dave had closed his eyes and fled.

He knew that he had been stupid to go to the prep boy for advice, but honestly, he didn't know what to do. He hadn't gone home in three days, staying at friends' places, friends who were mercifully oblivious to his sexuality. Hell, once upon a time he would have gone to Jeremy's and hung out there, not minding that Jeremy played with fire or seemed a little messed up in the head. They'd hung out since middle school and since then Jeremy had introduced him to half of his friends. People who would stick by him, whatever side of the law he was on.

People who would hate him the minute they knew he was gay.

But they didn't know, and they wouldn't, not unless his parents told.

His parents, who were liable to tell, if only because they would think that he should get counseling or something to help him cope with his 'abnormality.' He knew it was abnormal. He knew that he shouldn't be like this, that his life would be so much better if he just liked girls.

But he didn't. He didn't like girls, and his parents knew, and he had to do something or they would tell everyone else.

He would become Hummel: hated, despised, and ignored when he wasn't tormented. He would imprison himself to a life of misery all because of two syllables.

I'm gay.

Looking at his parents now, their backs to him as they pointedly ignored him rummaging around the kitchen, he waited, fingers clenched on the island, trying to muster the courage to say what he had to. Prep boy had been right, as much as he hated to admit it: he needed them to keep quiet about this, at the very least, or he was going to crumble.

So he took a breath and stepped into the living room, drawing their gazes.

"I need to talk to you," he began slowly.


	23. Chapter 23

Blaine was about to tear his hear out.

Sebastian had put his phone in his pants.

Over the boxers, yes, but seriously -- what was Blaine supposed to do about that?

Do I even want it back now? Blaine wondered, grimacing.

"You're insane," he told Sebastian heatedly.

Sebastian shrugged. "You just don't know the benefits of going after something you want," he retorted, reclining in one of the the chairs as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "And for a short guy, you are pretty damn hot. So I'll take it." He watched Blaine pace absently, head resting in one hand, blue eyes following closely. "Nice ass," he added with a smirk.

Blaine snarled, one more comment away from dragging Sebastian's royal behind off that chair.

Of course, that'll just make it look like you want him, his rational side piped in dryly.

I don't care, Blaine growled.

"Here," Sebastian said, casually reaching in his pants and pulling out his phone, "happy?"

Blaine grimaced and stared at it. I'm going to have to burn that now. And it was such a nice phone.

Sebastian fiddled around with it for a few moments, probably skimming through his contacts, before hitting a number. He crossed his legs and leaned casually back against the leather chair as he listened, smirking. "Hi, Kurt. How's it going?"

"Will you stop calling him?" Blaine demanded, venturing forward. Sebastian stretched out a foot and put it pointedly on Blaine's stomach, halting his progress.

"Uh huh. Can't wait to see you, either. Oooh, did you bring any weapons? Really? Damn." He turned to Blaine and added in a conspicuous whisper, "You should really reconsider your tastes. This guy didn't even bring a machete. Uh huh, I hear you. Yeah, he's still here. Nope, he's busy."

"Kurt, don't listen to him," Blaine said loudly.

"Oh, he's right," Sebastian assured. "We're totally not doing anything scandalous."

"Sebastian!"

"Uh huh. See you soon. Love you, too. Bye." He snapped the phone and leaned back with a sigh. "He's still twenty minutes out. Color me disappointed. I thought he'd have at least broken a speed limit for you." He shook his head, one foot still firmly planted on Blaine's stomach, before looking lazily through Blaine's other contacts. "Hmm. Who's this?" He hit the send button. Blaine cringed without even knowing who it was.

"Hey, babe. What? No, it's Sebastian." A pause, Blaine reaching over in a vain attempt to swat his arm. "Uh huh. Yeah, I'd totally vote for you in that. Oooh, it's against his boyfriend? Do tell." He leaned back, Blaine walking away in disgust to sit in the chair opposite of him, glaring at him. "Well, as long as you tell all of your friends about the awesome affair I had with Blaine last night, I'm all in," he said calmly. "Ambitious, huh? Yeah, me, too."

"Oh my God, you're talking to Rachel," Blaine realized, scrambling to his feet.

"Well, keep me updated on the beau -- that's totally unfair of him. You deserve better. He's probably bi or something. Uh huh. Bye-bye." He grinned at Blaine, shaking his head. "She your beard?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "One of many," he said, voice thick with sarcasm.

"I knew it," Sebastian said, scrolling through something else on his phone.

Blaine chose to sit back and ignore it rather than fight him on it. At that point, there wasn't really much that Sebastian could do that he was worried about, so going with the flow was easier. He couldn't help staring at how casual Sebastian was about the whole ordeal. If Blaine didn't know any better, then he would have thought that they were already boyfriends or friends with benefits or whatever Sebastian wanted to call them. (None of which were true, of course.)

Honestly, how many complete strangers stuck your phone down their pants?

Rubbing at his forehead, Blaine watched as Sebastian played some game for a few rounds before scrolling again. Sebastian didn't seem uncomfortable at all, his white shirt normal despite its noticeable deviation from the Dalton Academy uniform. If he would put on the blazer, then maybe Blaine could muster the anger to yell at him, but right then, he was almost bemused.

This is what happens to Dalton when I leave? he wondered.

Even if he had stayed, then Sebastian would have still been there, albeit actually competing for the lead position rather than earning it by default. He could have won it fairly, his reasonable side pointed out.

He put my phone in his pants, Blaine retorted, which effectively silenced reason.

"Done yet?" he asked, surprised at how dry his voice sounded.

"I don't know. Ready to stop talking yet?"

Blaine opened his mouth to say that they hadn't been talking earlier only to close it and shake his head. Not worth arguing, he decided, grimacing a little.

"I'm bored."

"Then give me back my phone and go away," Blaine quipped.

Sebastian raised his eyebrows and held out the phone, blue gaze steady. "Go on. Take it."

Blaine stared at him, flat, unmoved.

Sebastian laughed and slipped the phone in his pocket. "I knew it. Don't worry. You'll get it back eventually." He bounced to his feet, stretching his arms lazily over his head, pointedly revealing a thin line of stomach and -- damn it, if he wasn't attractive it would be easy to ensure that Blaine's gaze didn't accidentally stray for a look before snapping aside.

Clearly, his gaze wasn't unnoticed as Sebastian smirked and sidled forward. "The first step is admitting your attraction. I'm hot, you're hot. Why are we even wasting our time standing around?"

"Keep trying," Blaine said, getting up so that he wasn't sitting down when Sebastian stood less than two feet away.

Sebastian shook his head as though he was being deliberately thick-headed and stepped closer. Blaine made the mistake of trying to back up and nearly tripped over the chair in return.

"See, you've got to stop doing that," Sebastian said. "It's a bad knee-jerk reaction to have. A better one. . . ." He stepped forward and casually flicked one corner of his shirt, just the barest brush of fingertips against skin. "Nice, isn't it?" he drawled, even as Blaine startled aside and scowled at him. "How much does your boy even do for you, hmm? I'm not even asking for commitment here. This is like a get-out-of-jail free card."

"Having a boyfriend isn't the same as being in prison," Blaine snapped. "You're just. . . ." He shook his head in exasperation.

"Go on. Say it," Sebastian coaxed, brushing his fingers against Blaine's stomach that time, trapping his wrist when he reached over to stop it and stroking the inside of his wrist instead. "Either calm down or pick it up. You're not in middle school anymore."

"Back off," Blaine growled.

A slight grin crossed Sebastian's face. "Make me," he whispered, perilously close, gently trapping Blaine's wrist in his fingers.

Well, Blaine couldn't resist a direct challenge like that.

* * *

"See, this is much better," Sebastian pointed out with a smirk.

Blaine groaned and rested his head against the wall. He'd pinned Sebastian against it, but unfortunately every time he gave Sebastian even a tiny lead he took it and reversed their positions. Blaine had no intention of being caught in that position. Then again, his current one wasn't much better, but still. At least he was the one in control.

Until Sebastian slipped a leg between his.

"Urrrgh," Blaine groaned, hoping he could convey his deep disgust in the monosyllable as he startled backwards, folding his arms. As expected, Sebastian followed his retreat, smiling indulgently at him.

"You're not letting yourself have any fun. I'm not delicate. I've done this before." He lengthened his stride casually so he was walking beside Blaine.

Rolling his eyes and doing his best to look unperturbed, Blaine kept walking. Sebastian followed.

"Your boy's late," he added lightly, brushing off imaginary lint from his shoulders.

Blaine resisted the urge to shove him to relieve some of his feelings.

Seriously? Couldn't you go bother some other gay guy for a while?

"That's great," he said neutrally.

Sebastian made a show of sighing loudly. "Blaine. Babe. Loosen up. I'm not going to tear off his head."

Blaine halted mid-stride, opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, shook his head, and kept walking.

"Besides, I don't care about boyfriends. So whatever he does . . ." He shrugged. "I don't care."

"Really," Blaine said, mentally wishing Kurt would hurry up. Maybe he alone couldn't shake Sebastian (and where the hell was the rest of Dalton Academy when he needed it?), but at least he and Kurt had a better chance. Then again, the thought of Sebastian putting his phone down his pants with Kurt present didn't appeal to him much, either.

Blaine groaned at the thought, rubbing his neck.

Sebastian chuckled. "Right sound, wrong tone."

"Okay, you know what?" Blaine whirled around so that he was facing Sebastian head on. Stupid height advantages, he glowered while Sebastian simply looked down at him, amused. "Back off. I can't get any clearer than that. Go find someone else to have fun with. I'm taken, and I'm not going to go for you just because you're free and bored."

Turning, daring to hope that he might have at last made an impression at the silence, Blaine nearly groaned when Sebastian stepped up behind him. "It's all about opportunity," he reminded. "You say that you're taken, but honestly, Blaine? We're in high school. How taken are you going to be in a couple weeks? Once the thrill of it wears off? You'll want me then, and I won't be there."

"No, I don't think I'm going to want you at all," Blaine said stoutly.

Sebastian smiled. "You're naïve. You'll learn."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "And if I don't?"

"Don't worry," Sebastian assured, "that's why I'm here."

* * *

"Here yet?"

Kurt scowled at the voice. "Get off the phone, Sebastian."

"Junior commons. See you soon."

Click.

* * *

"So, what's he look like?" Sebastian asked casually, Blaine shaking his head and sitting down on one of the leather couches.

Mistake. Sebastian immediately sat next to him, ignoring it when Blaine kicked his shin out of sheer spite.

"I bet he's tall," Sebastian purred.

Blaine sank an elbow in his ribs. Sebastian didn't even flinch.

"Ribs of steel, babe."

"Will you stop calling me that?"

Sebastian drummed his fingers in mock-thought. "No," he said at last and then added, "Babe," with such a pointed emphasis Blaine face-palmed.

"You're exactly why straight guys are afraid of gay guys."

"I'm exactly why every straight guy wants to be gay," Sebastian corrected.

Blaine groaned. Sebastian patted his knee soothingly.

"Here, would it make it better if I called your so-called boyfriend?"

"No."

Sebastian pulled out his phone anyway. "Here yet?" he asked, one hand still resting possessively on Blaine's knee.

Blaine reached over and pried it off.

"Junior commons," Sebastian finished, "see you soon." He hung up. "He'll be here soon," he added unnecessarily.

Blaine stood up. "Go away," he said emphatically.

Sebastian rolled his eyes as he tugged him back down. "No way," he said in exactly the same tone. "Besides, I haven't even met this guy yet. It wouldn't be polite to just walk away. I have to know what I'm up against." He added the last with a shake of his head, as though he didn't think that there was any real competition whatsoever.

Well, you're out of luck, because I'm not leaving Kurt for anyone, especially not you.

Five minutes passed with Sebastian casually texting on his phone -- Blaine didn't even want to know who he was writing to -- before someone cleared his throat. Loudly.

Which, Blaine thought, was something Kurt would never have done on a normal day, since he would probably claim that it would damage his vocal chords.

But, considering the what the hell are you doing with my boyfriend? look on his face, Blaine decided that Kurt probably didn't care about his singing right then.

"Hello," Sebastian drawled, sounding infinitely bored. "You're the beau, I take it?"

"Yes," Kurt said, very quietly. "Now get away from him."

* * *

He's not short, was Kurt's first stupid thought as he stepped into the junior commons.

Unlike the senior commons, which were open and had broad, sweeping windows along the east wall, the junior commons were mostly closed off, a secluded space with only narrow windows and openings on either side. Most juniors hung out in the senior commons, even if technically their headquarters were the here. There was something inviting about the senior commons, something familiar, and even sophomores and freshmen slipped in and spent a few hours in the brilliant lightness.

In the junior commons, Kurt could understand a different appeal: it was quiet, secluded, a place for solitary study or musing, partnered or tripled at best.

When he saw Blaine, looking thoroughly exasperated, sitting on the couch, he couldn't help breathing a mental sigh of relief. He had known, somehow, that Sebastian wasn't like Karofsky, that he wasn't a shadow in that way, but it had still worried him when Sebastian had hung on him. He had to know if Blaine was all right, first and foremost, and now that he did, he could feel the outrage sinking in.

He's trying to steal my boyfriend. He's harassing my boyfriend.

Then: Hell. No.

"Yes," he said, mouth working before his brain had even fully processed the words. "Now get away from him."

Sebastian -- it had to be him -- laughed. "Tetchy," he said, one hand resting almost teasingly on Blaine's knee.

Kurt narrowed his eyes. "Don't."

Sebastian gestured with his free hand in invitation, other hand still firmly in place. Blaine scowled at him and stood up. Sebastian rolled his eyes and followed. "Well, now that we're all standing," he said, clasping his hands together as though this settled the matter and eyeing Kurt, "how do we settle this?"

"You back away," Kurt said in a low register that he rarely used, "and stay away from us."

"Oooh, you are possessive. But still a virgin. How sad."

Kurt flushed and rolled his eyes. "That's what you're interested in?"

"That's called sex," Sebastian reminded. "And yes. I am."

Blaine stepped around him, stepping over so that he was standing next to Kurt. "Not interested," he said shortly.

"Don't worry, babe. I'm flexible. I understand you're inexperienced," Sebastian said.

Kurt snarled at him, suddenly understanding why Blaine had shoved Karofsky so long ago when he'd called him butt boy. There was just something about the way Sebastian talked that made Kurt want to scream at him that he had already waited months for Blaine to get his act together and finally become his boyfriend and he was trying to steal that?

Sebastian cured his need to punch him, however, by shaking his head in an almost sad way and sashaying away. "Talk to you soon, Blaine," he added, waving the phone casually over his head.

Blaine ran a hand down his face, and Kurt was one step away from going after him, but Blaine grabbed his sleeve before he could do so. "Don't," he said simply.

Kurt watched Sebastian leave, looking utterly calm, before turning to face Blaine head on. "He didn't do anything?" he demanded, running his hands lightly up and down Blaine's arms, reaffirming for himself that Blaine was his, not Sebastian's.

Blaine shook his head, mouth twisting slightly. "He was just . . . forward," he said, "but I'm fine. Thanks for coming."

Kurt stared at him. "No one steals my boyfriend," he said seriously, smoothing his hands down and gripping both of Blaine's. Blaine squeezed back. "Of course I was coming."

Still, as Kurt's phone vibrated and they were sitting in his Navigator, the ignition off, Kurt groaned and pulled it out.

See you in Lima.

* * *

"Dude, these are freakin' fantastic," Finn said, eating four of Kurt's Halloween cookies at once. "How did you make these even better than usual?"

"I'm flattered," Kurt said dryly, holding up an over mitt in front of Finn's face so he could avoid watching him digest his food. "But seriously, Finn, if you don't at least tryand close your mouth while you're chewing I'm going to scream."

They had spent the entire morning making two hundred of Kurt Hummel's Halloween cookies, of which Finn had reserved a bowl (aptly labeled 'Finn's bowl' with a sticky note) and been given a twenty cookie allowance.

Swallowing tremendously, Finn downed Cookies Six through Ten without regret.

"If you eat all those now, you won't have any for later," Kurt warned. "So slow down. Or at least chew. I really don't want to watch you asphyxiate on Halloween cookies."

"What's a-fix-e-mate?" Finn asked through a mouthful of cookie. Then: "Sorry," he added, mouth still full of cookie.

Kurt closed his eyes and ushered him out of the kitchen with a hand on his back. "Go drown yourself in video games."

"Hey," Finn protested, trying to grab his bowl on the way out.

Kurt rolled his eyes and swatted at him with his oven mitt, forcibly pushing him along. "You've had enough. Those have to last the whole day, you know."

Finn actually whined. "Come on. I'm hungry now. You have no idea what it's like."

"Nope," Kurt said cheerfully. "I don't. Now leave me alone so I can bake delicious cookies in peace."

Looking thoroughly put out, Finn obliged.

* * *

"These are disgusting."

"They're festive."

"They're an abomination to food everywhere."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Candy corn, Kurt. It's not the end of the world."

They were sitting on the couch in the living room, the rest of the Hudson-Hummels off doing their various afternoon work. Blaine had somehow coerced Kurt into considering the yellow-white-and-orange candies in front of him, his eyebrow lifted skeptically all the while.

Kurt picked up one of the pieces delicately between two fingers and squinted at it before dropping it back in the bowl. "No," he said firmly.

Blaine was adamant. "Yes."

"Absolutely not. They're not even edible."

"Of course they are," Blaine said, popping one in his mouth demonstratively and making a show of chewing and swallowing.

Kurt grimaced. "I'm not eating it."

"Just one. That's it."

Kurt stared at the bowl with a long-suffering expression on his face. "One?" he pressed.

"One," Blaine assured. "That's it."

Sighing deeply -- "I'll never forgive you for this, you know" -- Kurt gingerly popped one of the sweets in his mouth.

"Chewy," he said at last, swallowing and blinking, looking somewhat dazed.

Blaine laughed and set the rest of the candy corn on the coffee table, shaking his head. "See, that wasn't so bad?"

Kurt shook his head and nudged his foot with his own. "Watch it."

Blaine held up his hands innocently.

* * *

There were streamers everywhere.

Kurt took exactly two steps inside his own living room before tripping epically over Finn, who was sprawled on the floor covered in black and orange streamers.

"Hey," the latter said sheepishly. "Do you know how to hang these up? Burt told me but then I grabbed the wrong end and . . . well."

Groaning because he had face-planted, Kurt shook his head. "For the love of everything holy, why did he let you near tape? Why?"

"Hey," Finn protested. "I'm not that bad."

Kurt kicked him slightly in response, slowly wobbling to his feet, a mess of orange and black streamers still strewn everywhere -- across walls, on the floor, even along the ceiling -- and shook his head. "Okay, first off, you don't need this much," Kurt said, yanking down a strand from the ceiling.

Which promptly triggered a paper avalanche, reburying him and Finn in streamers.

It was no surprise that, when Carole arrived at four with Blaine in tow, both boys were still struggling to get out of the streamers' mess.

* * *

"Oooh, that looks amazing," Kurt gushed, clapping his hands together. "Total win, Mercedes."

She had chosen to go simple this year by dressing up as a witch, but with the accentuating purple and flattering design of the costume there was nothing mediocre about it. Smiling at him and looking over herself in the mirror, running one hand questioningly along the brim of her hat -- tilted jauntily to one angle -- she grinned. "Thanks, boo. I think this'll work."

"You look great, baby girl," Marcus agreed. He had deigned to wear a pair of horns and carry around an impressive-looking fake club, effectively making him a troll. For such an economically frugal outfit, he pulled it off nicely. Perhaps it was the generally intimidating aura he carried around him, or simply because he looked so comfortable holding the club.

She grinned up at him. "Not bad yourself, big man. Nice horns."

Marcus lifted a hand and scratched one of the horns self-consciously. Kurt checked a snicker; Marcus looking self-conscious was like a bear looking bashful. "Thanks," he grunted.

They bantered back and forth about plans for the evening, Kurt absentmindedly pulling out his phone when it vibrated.

Coffee at the LB? :)

He scowled. Sebastian, I know it's you.

Fair warning, was all he wrote.

"I've gotta go," Kurt said, standing up abruptly while Mercedes and Marcus looked at him in confusion. "Seb -- one of Blaine's friends is back in town and I have to meet him."

"Boo, what's going on?" Mercedes asked, keeping pace with him easily as he hurried downstairs, Marcus following at a more leisurely gait.

"It's complicated," Kurt said tersely.

"It's a good walk if you're going to the Lima Bean," Mercedes pointed out. "Tell us. Maybe we can help."

Kurt sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and said, "A male Santana is crushing on Blaine and now he's in Lima with his cell phone."

"A male Santana," Mercedes repeated musingly.

"The hell?" Marcus said blankly.

"So he's, what, flirty?" Mercedes asked.

"Extremely." Kurt wished he could underline, bold, and highlight that, but unfortunately speech didn't have the same commodities as written word.

"Well, that could be fun," Mercedes said, trying to lighten the situation. "I mean, Santana's a bitch but maybe this guy isn't so bad?"

"Oh, he's bad," Kurt said darkly. "Trust me." And then he did his best to give the shortened version of their first encounter with Sebastian at Dalton as relayed to him by Blaine while still walking briskly towards the Lima Bean.

"And you left your beau alone?" Mercedes demanded at last. "Kurt--"

"I know, I know," Kurt said, irritated at himself. "I just -- he hadn't said anything since that first meeting and I thought--" He shook his head and lengthened his stride.

His phone vibrated again. Kurt nearly ripped out his entire coat pocket in his haste to get it out, scowling at the screen.

Just missed us. Talk to you soon.

"And?" Mercedes prompted since he had come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. "What's up?"

"He's gone," Kurt said, and then amended, "or, at least, he says he is."

"Why don't you just text Blaine and ask him?" she suggested.

Kurt's scowl deepened in frustration. "Sebastian took his phone."

"Someone's messing with Andy?" Marcus demanded, straightening impressively. With his horns still in place, he looked rather fearsome, even if he had left his fake club at home. "Where is this guy?"

"It's complicated," Kurt reiterated. "I just . . . I'll go see what's going on and let you know. Okay?"

"I don't know, Kurt," Mercedes hedged. "You sure you'll be okay alone?"

"I'll be fine," Kurt assured.

* * *

Blaine had been out for his afternoon coffee run while Kurt helped out Mercedes with some last minute costume checks when Sebastian walked through the door. For three seconds Blaine considered ignoring him, and then he saw Sebastian finishing a text. This is ridiculous, he decided. At least he could get rid of the phone if Sebastian gave it back. Otherwise, Sebastian could keep texting his friends until they surrendered him just to get Sebastian to stop.

"Sebastian, give me my phone back," he ordered, stepping forward as Sebastian sauntered into the Lima Bean, sliding Blaine's phone smoothly into his front pocket.

"Oh, hey, babe," Sebastian said, looking supremely unperturbed. "Did you save us a table?"

"No," Blaine said shortly. "Give me my phone."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Tetchy. Are you always this bitchy or am I just special?"

"Give me my phone."

"I'm not holding you back," Sebastian said, spreading his hands as though to show just how unresistant he was. He grinned at Blaine, half-daring him to just reach forward and take it.

Blaine rolled his eyes in exasperation. Sebastian patted his arm consolingly before he could jerk it aside. "You need to learn that if you want it, you can't hold back," Sebastian explained patiently. "I want you, so I'm not holding back. And yes, the phone is bribery."

Drawing in a deep breath to quell the urge to scream in frustration, Blaine shook his head. "You're taking this way over the top," he pointed out. "I don't want you at all.How do you suppose doing all of this is going to change it?"

Sebastian shrugged. "I know how this works. I'm more patient than you are. You'll see." Then, lightly grabbing Blaine's shoulders, he steered him over to a table and nudged him. Blaine, too surprised to argue, sat down and glared at him. Sebastian slid smoothly into the seat across from him, absentmindedly pulling out Blaine's phone. "How about we make a deal?" he said, turning the phone over slowly in his fingers. "I'll let you have your phone back if you let me buy you a coffee."

Blaine blinked. That sounded . . . well, he didn't want to say reasonable, but doable, and certainly better than reaching into Sebastian's front pocket for it. "Deal," he said slowly.

Which is exactly why Kurt walked in five minutes later and found him and Sebastian sitting at the table with coffees, looking for all the world perfectly civil. Blaine's eyes were fastened on his phone, but every time he reached forward Sebastian would casually close his fingers around it. It looked, most inconveniently, like he was staring at Sebastian's hands, since the phone itself was only occasionally visible. And, worse, Sebastian put his hand on Blaine's thigh at exactly the moment Kurt walked in, clearly in view, just as Blaine opened his mouth to say something.

"Oh, hey, Kurt," Sebastian said, in a light, pleasant sort of tone. "I thought you weren't coming."

Blaine would have dropped his head on the table then and considered defeat. He settled for pinching the back of Sebastian's hand and yanking it off his thigh as he all but leaped to his feet.

But he grabbed his phone first. He wasn't so stupid that he would leave Sebastian's end of the bargain unfulfilled.

"See you later, babe," Sebastian added calmly, smirking at him.

Kurt scowled at him. "Just leave him," Blaine whispered, sensing that Kurt would either let it lie for now or literally explode. And after spending almost twenty minutes in Sebastian's company, Blaine just wanted to get away.

This is dangerously close to spending time with him, his rational side pointed out. You need to stop.

He needs to stop! Blaine retorted.

With a low, barely audible noise Blaine could only describe as a growl, Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand and made a point of saying, "Goodbye, Sebastian," as he dragged Blaine out.

"What--?" Kurt's expression was a mixture of thunderous disbelief and immense irritation, which Blaine knew was not a combination to mess with on any day. "What was that, Blaine?" he demanded.

Blaine held up his phone, balancing it delicately on the edges of his fingers, and said, "Got my phone back."


	24. Chapter 24

"Who does he think he is?" Kurt fumed, stepping into the living room and dropping his satchel on the floor. "I mean, come on, I think I've made it clear that you're my boyfriend."

Blaine decided not to mention that he thought Sebastian knew, too, if only because Kurt was a little frightening when he went into full-rant mode. Especially when that full rant was pinpointed on him, since he had been drinking coffee with Sebastian. If it wasn't for my phone. . . , he argued silently, sitting on the edge of his seat in the kitchen while Kurt paced.

At last, Kurt came to a direct halt in front of Blaine. "What were you even doing with him?" he demanded, folding his arms.

Blaine waved his phone helpfully in the air. Kurt scowled.

"You got a coffee with him for your phone?"

Blaine nodded. It had seemed like a justifiable reason to drink coffee with someone who was trying to steal him away from his boyfriend. Except Kurt's expression didn't look pleased with the decision: if anything, he looked even more irritated. "Blaine, do you even know what impression it gives when you sit down with another gay man for a coffee date?"

"I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have something at stake," Blaine pointed out mildly, reaching over for a napkin and setting his phone gingerly on top of it. He was half-afraid to open the settings and scroll through them to see what adjustments Sebastian may or may not have made. Part of him was convinced Sebastian had altered all of his contacts (or, if he was really feeling vengeful, deleted them), but he hadn't mustered the courage to check yet. Besides, the less contact that he had with an item that had been in Sebastian's pants, the better.

His nose wrinkled as he looked at his phone. I actually feel bad for you. I can't imagine what his pants must be like.

Which was a horrible line of thought to be thinking, as it made Blaine think about what Sebastian's pants were like for ten seconds before he managed to yank himself back to the present.

And yes, Kurt was still looking agitated and now sitting across from him, his expression so flat Blaine thought he could probably throw a snowball at him and he wouldn't flinch. It would have been an amusing possibility to explore if the light of the situation hadn't been so serious: Blaine knew that Kurt would probably kill him if he tried for sheer need to relieve some of his frustration and anger.

Which is completely understandable, his inner rationality pointed out. He has a right to be angry because you're supposed to be his boyfriend and that does not mean hanging out with other gay guys. Regardless of the circumstances.

I had to get my phone back somehow, Blaine protested. Besides, I doubt Kurt would have been any happier if I had had to wrestle it from Sebastian's pants.

He made a face at the thought. Kurt noticed it and narrowed his eyes. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

Blaine made the mistake of trying to wave it off.

"Blaine Warbler, do not put this off," Kurt quipped sharply. With an impressive effort, Blaine reigned in the urge to lift an eyebrow. Kurt would definitely not appreciate it if he felt like he was being mocked, but inwardly Blaine couldn't help it: how long had it been since Kurt called him that? Prom? "Why didn't you just leave it for later?" Kurt continued, his voice a little milder if no less frustrated.

"He had my phone, Kurt," Blaine said, willing Kurt to understand.

Kurt didn't. "You didn't have your phone for seven weeks and you were fine then."

Blaine rolled his eyes, not caring if it gave the wrong impression. "I was also incapacitated for half of that time. And it's not like someone was actually using my phone then."

"Your parents could have," Kurt said mutinously. "Why didn't you worry about them when they had it, but couldn't wait to get it back from Sebastian?"

"I got my phone back and there was no harm done," Blaine protested aloud. Kurt's expression hardened, if at all possible, and Blaine hastened to explain before he could build up a full-blown rant to the contrary. "I know sitting down with him for coffee wasn't the most politically correct move. However, would you rather he still have my phone and be harassing you or Mercedes or someone else just so he could try and talk to me?"

"Maybe," Kurt said bluntly. He folded his hands and leaned back a little, which, for him, was the equivalent of a tiger bristling and leaning back for a lunge. Blaine instinctively braced himself for a rant that didn't come. Thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes passed in absolute silence, the tension so clear that Blaine thought he could have taken a pin and popped it. Stop being childish, he chastised the irrational side of him that would think of such things then.

At last, Kurt took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Do you even remember Jeremiah? How infatuated you were with him?" he asked quietly.

Blaine would have been beyond incompetent if he didn't recognize the anger and hurt in Kurt's voice. The thread of hurt was a little stronger than before, something that made Blaine want to reach out and grab his hands and just tell him that there was no way Sebastian was going to steal him away. Ever. It didn't matter if Kurt had his days and moments where most people couldn't stand him and even Blaine felt his patience tested. Blaine was his boyfriend, not Sebastian's whatever, and he was surprised to realize just how little Kurt seemed to genuinely believe that.

He thinks Sebastian can actually convince me to leave him, he thought incredulously. Blaine couldn't picture himself with Sebastian in any way, unless that picture involved him forcibly getting away from him. To see just how distraught -- however buried beneath anger -- Kurt was upset Blaine to a degree he couldn't easily define.

I'm sorry, he thought, but he kept his mouth closed as Kurt opened his to speak, his voice slow and careful, checking his own anger.

"I know I can't control who you're friends with," Kurt went on. "And even if I could, I wouldn't want to. But if you hang out with another obviously gay man when just about everyone in Lima knows you serenaded Jeremiah last year, what sort of impression do you think that gives?" He took a shallow breath, visibly stealing himself, before saying, "People don't know what you're capable of, Blaine. And cheating here is practically an Olympic sport."

"Jeremiah and I went on one crummy little coffee date," Blaine protested, "if it could even be called that."

Kurt's expression was wounded as he said, "Just like that one crummy little date you went on with Rachel? No offense, Blaine, but for a gay man your record isn't exactly spotless."

"I'm not going to start dating Sebastian," Blaine said flatly. "I didn't date Jeremiah or Rachel seriously and I have no intention to date anyone while you're my boyfriend."

Kurt looked vaguely skyward. "So what happens when I'm not your boyfriend?"

Blaine blinked. He honestly hadn't ever seriously looked at what 'post-Kurt' life would be like, even if he had clearly defined the depressing period that was 'before-Kurt' and then the glorious 'with-Kurt' that was then. The thought of leaving that behind was . . . almost nauseating. He didn't want to think about what the fallout would look like -- would he even be allowed at the Hudson-Hummels' home anymore? Would Finn even talk to him, or look at him, once he wasn't Kurt's boyfriend? Or Mercedes, who had threatened to cut him on more than one occasion during the early phases of his relationship with Kurt -- would she care about him at all once he wasn't 'Kurt's beau'?

It was shocking to realize just how much of his current life depended on Kurt's decisions. If Kurt wasn't his boyfriend, at the very least he doubted he would be able to stay at his house anymore. Which would inevitably mean a return to his parents' place in awkward silence and grudging compromises, promising that he wouldn't 'flaunt' his homosexuality in their faces while they promised not to be aggressively anti-gay around him. They'd probably box him up and ship him back to Dalton, regardless of his say on the matter, and he didn't know if he would even protest, given the situation back at McKinley.

Then he thought of Dalton without Wes, David, Thad or half of the other Warblers and inwardly cringed at the thought. It was purely an added deterrent that Sebastian was there and that he would have basically unhindered access to Blaine's personal life if he transferred back.

Well, he mused, there's one definite reason why I won't transfer back to Dalton, regardless of what's happened at McKinley.

He looked at Kurt, who was still watching him gravely, and shook his head a little. "I'm not going to break up with you," he said quietly.

Kurt's fingers clenched momentarily as though he was looking for a more substantial reason to argue against. You could always break up with me, Blaine's logical side pointed out.

He didn't dwell on that too long -- the possibilities were too depressing.

"I just want you to realize," Kurt said at last, "that you sitting with him for a . . . coffee date doesn't look good to other people." He flushed slightly at the words 'coffee date,' apparently loathe to give any correspondence between Sebastian and Blaine such a name.

"It wasn't a date," Blaine assured, "in any respect. He made a deal--"

"Why did you accept that, anyway?" Kurt interrupted in a bemused voice.

Blaine ignored it. Probably better to explain where his phone had been while Kurt was sitting down, true, but he wanted to get this out in the open more. "I know that we're not dating. And if other people make the wrong assumptions, those are their problems, not ours. Please don't look into this too seriously. I doubt anyone in that coffee shop cared whether two guys were sitting with each other at all."

"You're my boyfriend," Kurt said seriously. "Shouldn't I be concerned if other people think you're dating him?"

"No," Blaine said quietly, "because I know better, and you know better, and no matter what Sebastian does, he can't possibly change that." Then, ignoring whatever diplomatic instincts that arose in him to say he wasn't allowing Kurt enough distance to collect his own thoughts, Blaine reached over and gripped his hand, hard. Kurt stared at their fingers for several long moments in apparent shock, seemingly frozen in place. Then he slowly, almost reluctantly loosened his own clenched fist and turned it over, accepting Blaine's grasp with a lukewarm hand.

"We'll block him from our phones," Blaine went on, "and no matter how forward he tries to be, I have no obligation whatsoever to speak to him, so I'll ignore him. He can't actually do anything if we don't respond, and--" He paused, since Kurt looked briefly pained, and frowned before asking, "What?"

"By that reasoning," Kurt pointed out, "you already gave him the opportunity, since he definitely responded."

Blaine made an exasperated gesture with his free hand. "Didn't we already establish that I was stupid once by going on the roof with him?"

Kurt's lips pursed. "You never did tell me why you went on the roof with him, exactly."

"It was a stupid dare," Blaine said, rolling his eyes and giving Kurt's hand an empathetic squeeze. He hoped that he could convey half of his apology for being stupid once around Sebastian through that simple touch, but he knew that it would take more than that to convince Kurt. For one, he still looked skeptical, his eyes an almost misty opaque that Blaine knew could hide a plethora of emotions. Foremost was obviously rage, but beyond that, frustration and sadness vied equally for attention. He didn't know what to make of the overall effect, other than Kurt was obviously hurt by the fact that he was around Sebastian at all and that he had to do something to fix it.

And why is it all your fault? his cynical side demanded. Sebastian set this up, not you. It should be Sebastian Kurt's yelling at, not you.

Yes, but he doesn't have Sebastian around right now, does he? And, besides, Blaine did owe Kurt the respect of listening to him since he was his boyfriend and hanging out with another gay man definitely qualified as suspicious behavior.

But we're not dating, his cynical side piped back in. It's not like Sebastian and I did anything.

Except get coffee.

Silence.

Kurt's phone vibrated. Slowly, as though awakening from a pensive half-sleep -- which was probably the truth -- Kurt reached down and tugged it out of his pocket, setting it on the table and clicking on the message. A tiny smile quirked his lips and Blaine relaxed a little. It obviously wasn't Sebastian, and if he could get Kurt's mind off Sebastian, he was hopeful that he could remain in his 'good books' as far as their relationship went.

"So?" he prompted lightly, when a minute or two had passed and Kurt had typed out a neat response, setting the phone aside again and looking up at him with a flat, thoughtful gaze.

Kurt shrugged his shoulders infinitesimally and said, "Mercedes wanted to know if we were still going to Rachel's party tonight."

Blaine waited, expectant, while Kurt examined his nails in a mock-considerate way, his gaze still peripherally oriented on Blaine. Rolling his eyes a tiny bit, Blaine asked, "And the verdict is . . . ?"

"I'm . . . considering," Kurt said in his too-mild tone that Blaine knew was the same thing as a 'yes.' He grinned a little before putting on a more grave expression. Kurt didn't look up from his fingers, only reaching over to slide the phone back in front of him as it vibrated again. His smile broadened as he did so, and Blaine feigned leaning over to read the message. Kurt rolled his eyes, playfully shoved his shoulder back, and slid the phone so it was sitting in front of him.

It was Mercedes, unsurprisingly enough, asking whether he and Blaine would be interested in a little pre-Rachel party at her place. Blaine grinned a little and passed it back to Kurt, who tapped out a quick reply before setting it aside. His face immediately switched back to the impassive look, but Blaine knew what it meant now and simply rested his chin on his hands, waiting for the announcement.

With great dignity, Kurt took a deep breath and said, "We're going," before practically bouncing off his seat and pocketing the phone. In less time than it took Blaine to blink and register that he had moved, he was halfway up the stairs, disappearing in his room before Blaine thought to mimic the gesture. He paused, momentarily considering following before shaking his head and sinking back down into his seat. Kurt had refused to tell him what he was wearing for Halloween, despite many pleads, and at last Blaine had resigned himself to not knowing what it was until Kurt deemed it was the 'appropriate' time.

Although he couldn't know for certain if Kurt would even bother get dressed up now, Blaine definitely understood that Kurt would be exceptionally miffed if he accidentally figured it out beforehand. Therefore, he lingered behind, stealing a few of the Halloween cookies Kurt had made a few days ago and popping them in the microwave to heat them up a little. Kurt detested the practice -- he said it 'ruined the flavor' -- but this was one argument Blaine was happy to say he won. Pulling them out and setting them on a paper towel so the newly warmed cookies wouldn't make excessive crumbs on the floor, Blaine picked them apart slowly, almost done with the third by the time Finn walked through the door.

To say Finn looked harassed was an understatement: worried was in the same ballpark, exasperated even closer to the mark. He was still wearing his Frankenstein's monster costume -- no surprise, since Blaine hadn't seen him since early morning and Kurt had told him that he was helping Rachel with some last minute adjustments -- and it looked rather unerringly accurate given his current expression.

"You look happy," Blaine greeted dryly. Finn gave him a look and flung himself dramatically across the couch, picking up his controller with a somewhat mollified expression as computer-animated zombies appeared on-screen. He shot down a couple dozen before responding, his Frankenstein-esque face turning briefly greener.

"Rachel made me hang up streamers," was all he said.

Blaine hummed in understanding, suddenly wondering if there would be a Berry residence to speak of when they arrived. Given the disaster that had been the Hudson-Hummel living room after Finn's first attempts, he could tell that the second try had gone no less spectacularly, and that Finn had probably had a hysterical Rachel on his hands for the better part of the afternoon. Already Finn's complexion (albeit green-enhanced) was looking more normal, his features more relaxed, as he hunted virtual foes in his native environment.

Picking his way through his final cookie, Blaine looked up the stairs, leaning against the counter expectantly. It was almost four thirty, and while the party didn't start until nine, Mercedes' 'pre-party' was at seven. Which gave Kurt just enough time to get ready, Blaine thought wryly, stepping into the living room. He sat down on the couch next to Finn, who didn't even bother look up as he did so, and watched the zombie-slaying for maybe twenty minutes before tuning out and closing his eyes instead.

Things will be fine with Sebastian, he thought. He'll get bored eventually and will leave you alone. Don't lose sight of that. It's not like he'll keep trying forever.

Yes, but how long before then? How much longer do we have to put up with him?

To that, he didn't have an answer.

* * *

If it wasn't for the Rachel Berry party, Kurt thought critically, he wouldn't have bothered dress up until Halloween itself. As a fashionista and general aficionado of high-quality clothing, he found Halloween to be little more than an opportunity for both the mediocre and exceptional to showcase their fashion talents (or, in the former's case, lack thereof). But as far as he was concerned, if he wanted to be festive once a year, what better time than Halloween? It was the perfect excuse to try out some of his more experimental outfits without being called out; even his dad couldn't argue with that logic. Honestly, some of the straight guys wore more questionable outfits on their own: who was to stop Kurt from having a little fun?

And, frankly, this was practically heterosexual. Borderline stereotypical. If Kurt had looked any less fabulous, he might have even been ashamed at himself for having so little originality.

He lifted one of his -- one hundred percent real, unlike Puck's rapier -- sai swords and grinned. A little originality wouldn't kill anyone. (Hopefully. He had nearly given his dad a stroke with a close toss, but other than that he hadn't done anything even somewhat dangerous.)

Looping his black sash elegantly around his waist, he examined his spotless visage in the mirror and grinned. He would go certain lengths for his design, but he had jazzed up the hat, more of a top hat than anything else. Still. As Finn would have put it (and, if he had escaped from the Berrys' lair, would have the opportunity to say so), he rocked this look.

Pirate Hummel for the win.

* * *

Finn literally fell off the couch in surprise. Blaine attributed that mostly to the fact that Kurt had cropped up so quietly behind him that he had mistaken the noise for one of Finn's on-screen zombies. With a quick look at the clock, rubbing his eyes to clear them in the restored daylight, Blaine blinked at the time. Six. Wow. Where had that hour gone? Stretching his arms luxuriantly over his head, he almost forgot the reason Finn had fallen off the couch until his gaze drifted upward and he froze mid-stretch.

Kurt looked -- well, fantastic was the first word that came to Blaine's mind, especially since he knew that Kurt had refused to go out and buy anything specifically. This all came from his usual wardrobe, spiced up with a few items that he would have carefully picked out over time for Halloween. An economical win? Absolutely. (Although, Blaine mused, it was probably fairly expensive when stripped down to basic components, since he knew Kurt wore nothing less than designer wear on most days.)

The thought of stripping down and Kurt in a pirate costume did not belong in the same sentence. Not if Blaine wanted to go to any parties later that night, at least.

Flushing a little at the thought, he tried to look at the outfit from a purely critical stance, since Kurt would want that side of his opinion first. The choices were simple, subtle, and sensibly appealing. A light off-white color dominated, accentuated by dark black pants that flared predictably at the ankle before tucking under a pair of long black boots. He wore a gray vest overtop a ruffle-collared shirt, the edges laced with black and hints of gold. There were at least four thin gold bands around his wrist and, most strikingly, a silver belt wrapped around his waist. Blaine knew that Kurt usually avoided ostentatious belts like the plague, but this one fit well with the rest of the get-up, and he could definitely see the appeal when set against the vest, shirt, and pants.

Plus, it allowed for the two bands -- undoubtedly tailored, since Blaine doubted any belt came pre-made for them -- holding a pair of pronged silver swords. They looked quite real.

"What're those?" were the first words out of his mouth.

Kurt grinned at him as he draped one leg casually over the arm of the couch, displaying his profile for easier viewing. (And yes, Blaine thought appreciatively, he looked good from that angle, too). "These?" Kurt asked, fingering the bands delicately, deliberately playing dumb. Blaine would have rolled his eyes if he could have stopped staring at Kurt's legs, which he had noticed were just slightly revealed at the ankle when he tilted them a certain way. With a noble effort, he pried his gaze away and reached over to flick the belt.

"Those," he corrected, leaning back and crossing his arms expectantly.

He started upright a moment later when Kurt drew both in half a second, a flash of silver cutting the air before they were pointed in his palms, restive, easy. "Holy shi -- wow," he said, blinking, since Burt had just walked in the front door and he did not want to get on his bad side in any way. Kurt grinned at him, while Finn scooted subtly back on the carpet, a little more out of reach. Wondering absentmindedly if he should do the same -- those swords looked pretty legitimate, even if they were pronged -- Blaine stood his ground. He was Kurt's boyfriend. He had to show trust in him, no matter how seemingly crazy his ventures seemed. (Besides, if Kurt had wanted to deliberately maul him, he could have done so earlier, rather than waiting more than an hour. Granted, Burt might look away if he deemed his son's motivations justifiable, and Finn didn't look very inclined to step between Kurt, swords, and Blaine; it was possible Kurt could get away with some righteous anger-induced justice if he wanted to.)

"Sai swords," Kurt said, comfortably turning them in his hands, examining them with the ease of a collector looking at two precious gems. "What? Never heard of them?" he asked lightly.

"No," Blaine said, curious and concerned in equal parts. Dealing Sebastian was definitely exasperating, yes, and borderline intolerable at times, but if this was the angry version of Kurt that he had to face up to now, he really didn't want to know what happened next with the swords.

Kurt flicked his wrists.

Blaine wouldn't have had a chance to move even if he had seen it coming, but fortunately nothing sharp and unpleasant lodged itself in his stomach. Instead, the swords started -- twirling, he supposed the best word for it was. Finn had climbed to his feet somewhere in the process and was now watching, open-mouthed, just as surprised-looking as Blaine. Kurt looked so comfortable that, had he had an extra hand, he would have been making bread. Or reading a book. Or stirring tea. "How . . . ?" Blaine's voice died as he watched, unable to deny that Kurt -- in a pirate outfit -- with pronged swords was surprisingly . . . well, hot.

"Practice," Kurt said elusively, giving them one last flourish before sliding both neatly in their respective 'sheaths.'

"Dude, that's freakin' awesome," Finn said, sounding exactly as amazed as Blaine felt. Or maybe a little less so, because this was Kurt, Kurt Hummel, spinning swords.

Wow.

"It's nothing," Kurt dismissed, sashaying forward and wandering into the kitchen. "Oooh, is that for dinner?" he asked appreciatively.

Blaine gaped after him. He was pretty sure that Finn was doing the same, but his eyes were still glued to Kurt's retreating form. "Did you know he could do that?" he asked Finn in a genuine stage-whisper.

Finn shook his head dumbly.

* * *

"You guys look great!" Mercedes greeted, stepping outside and wrapping Kurt in a hug. She had her witch costume on, Marcus' bulking form visible behind her as he grinned at them both. "Kurt, this is seriously fantastic. How did you even do it?"

"If I told you, then it wouldn't be such a fabulous secret, now, would it?" Kurt pointed out, slipping around her and grinning at Marcus. "Hey, big guy. How's it going?"

"It's going great," Marcus said, thumping him affectionately on the shoulder. (Marcus had fortunately a gentle hand when it came to people he liked; otherwise Blaine was confident that he would have put a sizeable dent in Kurt's clavicle and possibly spine.) "Nice outfit."

Kurt beamed.

Blaine edged in behind him, not wanting to interrupt the best friends' greeting. He was wearing a pair of long pants and a ruffled-shirt in the same off-white color as Kurt (unlike Kurt, his pants were also white), with gray interspersed stylishly at the color and belt. His main attribute was a pair of bright pink sunglasses. James, one of Blaine's friends back at Hawthorne, had always worn bright blue sunglasses. Emulating him after their many bonding experiences, Blaine had adopted a pair of similarly bright, pink shades. James had almost laughed himself silly at the initial rationalization, but the sunglasses had grown on Blaine in a way. He liked them. They made him stand out, and, as Kurt had pointed out, Blaine liked the spotlight almost as much as he did. If fashion wasn't his forte, he could at least appreciate a pair of sunglasses.

His costume was officially a 'secret agent,' but mostly it was an excuse for him and Kurt to match and for Blaine to wear the shades. Which was completely fine with him, since he didn't get that opportunity very often.

Well, you did when you serenaded Jeremiah, Blaine's logical side had reminded while he and Kurt were walking to Mercedes, completely shameless about the outfits.

That was purely because it was too good an opportunity to resist, he protested. And that was true: it had been like a in-joke, a silent salute to his old friendship with James when he playfully donned the pink shades. They had been perfect and, well, how was he supposed to resist such an ideal opportunity?

"You look great," Mercedes told him, a second before she hugged him, too. He was surprised at how affectionate the gesture was -- usually it was quick hugs, brief glances, a passing touch on the shoulder -- but she hugged him just as hard and long as she had Kurt, pulling back only to hold him at arms' length and look his costume thoughtfully over. "Nice shades," she said, her gaze meeting his, her grin broad.

"I couldn't convince him to wear a less obtrusive tone," Kurt put in with a mock-morose tone.

"I like the pink," Marcus rumbled. "Nice choice, Andy."

There was a pause. Then -- and Blaine honestly didn't know who started it first; it seemed like they all did at once -- they started laughing. Because Marcus giving fashion advice was irresistibly funny.

* * *

The haunted house was spectacular, exactly as Blaine had predicted it would be when Mercedes and Marcus first grinningly told him it would be. On the first step Kurt tripped epically, which would have been hilarious if Blaine wasn't close enough that he reflexively wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. "Careful," he murmured in Kurt's ear, while the latter rolled his eyes and flushed.

Deciding that taking the lead might keep himself in Kurt's 'good books,' Blaine confidently stepped over the arch Marcus had put in the floor and almost pranced ahead, too eager to look calm and cool and collected.

He tore through the first room, with Kurt loudly complaining behind him that of course he knew where to go, he had designed the thing. Blaine cheekily retorted that he had had no part in the final installments, and proved it by tripping over an unexpected arch Marcus had put in last-minute. Mercedes laughed as he landed on the floor with a thud, cushioned by a sandbag placed strategically so that he wouldn't hit linoleum. Grumbling that that was a fluke, Blaine strode forward, quickly navigating the next room while Kurt continued to call after him in response.

It was pitch dark here, and Blaine navigated purely by stretching his hands out and, yes, feeling the walls. He nearly fell when there was an abrupt gap before realizing Marcus had set up a false wall exactly for that purpose. Rolling his eyes and re-orienting himself with the real wall, he shimmied under a hanging obstacle (grinning at the thought of what Kurt would say when he found that) before almost leaping out of his skin in surprise.

His heart rate calmed from rabbit-in-flight to normal once he realized that the thing that had tackled him was not, in fact, a boarding serial killer but Rachel, who grinned ear-to-ear at him. "Got you, Blaine Warbler," she said, her arms wrapped around his neck and her small form pressed up against him. It was, Blaine reflected, another reason that he was confident he was gay: while most straight guys would have been at least a little interested in having a girl lying on top of him, he didn't feel anything more than How on earth did she even manage to get in here?

Apparently Mercedes felt the same, for she said, "Rachel," loudly a moment later. "I thought you had your own party to plan," she added, while Rachel clambered off Blaine with ease.

"I just wanted to see what you four were up to," Rachel said, sounding put out. "You didn't invite me over here."

"Gee, wonder why," Mercedes said. "Maybe because you freaked out seven times in the past four hours about your outfit?"

"I won't freak out," Rachel promised at once.

There was a sigh, during which Blaine was sure Mercedes was deliberating employing Marcus' boyfriend card to make him throw Rachel out (physically or not, Blaine wasn't sure), before at last she said, "All right. You can stick around."

Rachel clapped quickly and threw her arms around Blaine's neck again in momentary celebration before grabbing his hand and dragging him forward. He opened his mouth to remind her that Finn was her boyfriend, not him, but Rachel was already pulling him ahead. Casting an apologetic glance back at the dark where Mercedes, Marcus, and Kurt were scattered, he followed.

"What's up?" he asked, aiming for casual as they came to a stop somewhere in the basement.

"Are you cheating on Kurt?" Rachel demanded at once.

"What?"

"I saw you," Rachel said, sounding exasperated, and Blaine could almost see her rolling her eyes. "You were at the Lima Bean with Sebastian."

"I was," Blaine said, hoping tone alone could deter her. He could feel her gaze boring into him, even if he couldn't see it in the darkness. "It's kind of complicated with him right now. But I'm not cheating on Kurt," he hurried to assure.

Again, he could feel the flat criticism in her gaze. "Why were you drinking coffee with him?"

"I wasn't," Blaine pointed out, since his nit-picky side had to have its say. He had refused to drink the coffee, suspecting that Sebastian wouldn't be above slipping something into it, so they had really just sat and Sebastian had drank coffee while Blaine pointedly ignored his. Hardly a date, he reflected. "Whatever you saw, it's not what you think. Can we talk about this later?" he added, since he could hear Marcus descending the stairs. He didn't want to involve Mercedes' boyfriend before he could get out a full explanation.

He had no doubt that Rachel's eyes were still fastened on him, but she quipped, "You better not be doing anything illicit," before bouncing off.

Blaine blinked in the darkness while Marcus bumped shoulders with him casually. "She bothering you?" he asked.

Blaine shook his head and said, "No," since he doubted that Marcus could see his head in the dark.

It did worry him that Rachel had seen him and Sebastian in the coffee shop together, but at least no one else of significance had.

So you think, his logical side reminded wryly.

He waited until Kurt caught up, grumbling all the while about how 'haunted houses' were for pre-pubescent children, before smiling and him and wrapping him in a surprise hug. Narrowly missing impalement by sai sword, he rested his chin on Kurt's shoulder and asked lightly, "Having fun?"

Kurt sniffed, which could have been a confirmation or negation.

* * *

"This is fantastic," Blaine said, popping a piece of pull-apart cinnamon cake in his mouth. He ignored Kurt's exasperated sigh -- 'community foods' were not exactly the most stylish options, but Blaine knew he would forgive him eventually -- and gently freed another piece from the cake. "Seriously, your dads are amazing."

Rachel preened. "The Berrys are rather famous locally for our cinnamon cakes," she said promptly.

"I can't believe they made this," Blaine said. "I'm definitely stealing the recipe," he added, grinning.

Rachel rolled her eyes and tugged the cake away from him. "In your dreams, Warbler."

"Not a Warbler anymore," Blaine reminded, leaning his arms on the counter and pouting at her. "Come on. I was kidding. I won't steal the recipe."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Rachel demanded, swatting at his hand when he reached forward. "Kurt! Control your boyfriend!"

"What about my boyfriend?" Kurt asked, leaning his head on Blaine's back and tugging him backwards with an arm around his waist. "You're going to turn into Finn if you don't stop eating that," he added, poking Blaine's stomach lightly.

Blaine swatted at his arm. "I am not. Metabolism of champions right here." He let himself -- sulkily -- be pulled away. "It was good," he protested, when Kurt simply gave him a look.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I'm sure it was fantastic," he said dryly. "But now that you've gorged yourself on sweets, how about we actually join the party, hmm?"

"We're the first ones here," Blaine protested. It was true: even Finn had yet to show up. Marcus and Mercedes were doing some last minute 'wardrobe checks' at home, while the rest of the New Directions were opting for on time rather than early.

Blaine didn't mind being early: the Berry residence was warm and comfortable in a way that fit Blaine's mental image of Rachel Berry's house exactly. The Hudson-Hummel home was mostly noisy and boyish and often times beautifully untidy, but the Berry residence was largely organized and spotless. There were Halloween decorations tastefully applied to the more obvious locations, while regular commodities rested in places in between. Given the generally light and warm color schemes, it definitely gave off the impression of a close, doting family, and Blaine was unsurprised that this would be the place where Rachel Berry was raised.

Hiram and Leroy were both out back wrestling with a set of lights -- Blaine had to stifle a laugh at the thought of two grown men arguing over the proper way to set up Halloween lights, especially since he, Finn, and Kurt had been doing so just the other night. It was cozy, domestic, and not in the least bit frightening, despite the general objective of Halloween being to frighten as many people as possible. He could hear Leroy's slightly sulky tones drifting in from the open back door, Hiram insisting that one had to start from the left, not the right.

Sounds like Kurt, Blaine mused, as Hiram meticulously unraveled a strand of lights over the bushes.

"Sorry, Rach, we'll be in in a few minutes!" Leroy called, following Hiram around the yard and grumbling about how it was the other way.

"That's fine, Dad!" Rachel said back, beaming at him and Kurt. "I wanted to put them up sooner," she added with a shrug. "They insisted, and I had the rest to coordinate. So. Would you two like to go downstairs?"

"Why don't we just wait up here?" Blaine suggested delicately. Unwelcome memories of getting drunk, kissing Rachel, and having a lovely tipsy duet with her had been clear on his mind since the moment he spotted the stairwell leading below. He knew that heading below wasn't likely to result in the same incident with both of her fathers home, of course, but it was the thought that counted.

Rachel nodded, completely unbothered, and practically leaped from the kitchen to the door as the doorbell rang.

"Finn!" she exclaimed, in a half-scolding, half-eager tone, pouncing on her boyfriend.

Finn smiled sheepishly at her, looking a little abashed as he spotted Kurt and Blaine already inside, before carefully disentangling himself. "Hey, guys," he said, lifting a hand slightly.

"You're late," Rachel chastised, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the stairs. "Come on, I can't wait to show you what's downstairs!"

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look as they descended. Do we want to know?

Pause. Blaine shrugged a little, Kurt looked dubious. Maybe.

Edging forward, Blaine followed at a slight distance, looking at Kurt all the while, his glasses propped on his head. It won't go like last time. Promise.

Kurt's gaze softened, his smile turned genuine, and he stepped forward, actually slipping his palm into Blaine's and giving it a squeeze. You better and I know were written in equal parts as they followed.


	25. Chapter 25

"Evening, Trume," Sebastian said, stepping inside the cafeteria with a jacket in hand, his shirt slung over one shoulder. "Any news?"

Jacob Trume shook his head, studiously examining music sheets for the upcoming competition, his face expressionless. "Nothing since you last asked," he said at last, setting down the folder briefly to look up at Sebastian more fully. "Where have you been?"

Sebastian smiled, drumming his fingers along the edge of the table in mock-contemplation. "Just visiting some friends," he said lightly.

"And by that you mean seducing some boy," Trume corrected, rolling his eyes and gesturing with a hand.

Sebastian shook his head as he pulled out a chair and sat in it. "Delicacy, my friend. Learn it."

"Oh, please," Trume huffed. "As if you even know what that means. So. Why are you interested in this guy?" He leaned forward intently, his arms almost folded on top of his music sheets as he peered at Sebastian skeptically. His entire demeanor bled authority: he was born to sit behind the controls, to wield the power, to push the movement forward. Sebastian allowed his smile to turn light and confidential, just the slightest adjustment of his mouth that would reasonably fool Trume into thinking this conversation was utterly private. "Is it his grating personality or his charming lack of appeal?"

"Actually, if he was even a little more educated I doubt I would find his personality grating at all," Sebastian pointed out lightly. Trume leveled dubious green eyes at him, at which Sebastian laughed. "Jacob, if you're interested, I'll set you up."

Jacob flushed to his hairline. "Bastard."

Sebastian rolled his eyes and reached over to flick the music sheets, scattering a few across the table. Trume made a disgruntled noise and chased them back with nimble fingers into a neat pile. He worked mechanically, Sebastian noted, a machine more than a person: originality was definitely not his forte, and when it came to most crises Trume would pull out a manual before he would even consider his own solution. Given the mechanization of the Warblers and general compliance of the younger members, it had not been difficult to get Trume elected. The unanimous vote had simply been an unintended bonus.

They're complacent without him, Sebastian thought, folding his hands and leaning back, appraising Trume with half a mind. They don't know how to function without someone leading them.

Then, with a small smile quirking his lips: Too easy.

There was nothing about Anderson in particular that attracted him -- or, rather, nothing he could pinpoint. He supposed it was just a general allure, a crush, and for the non-romantics, a lust. Since his transfer to Dalton Academy, he had been sadly depraved of a boyfriend -- boyfriend used loosely, of course, since he had no interest in the sappy 'extra' nonsense that including dating and hanging out beyond certain regards -- something that he had full intention of remedying as soon as possible. Jeff was his initial interest, since he was gay, but it quickly became clear that Jeff also had an intolerably bright personality, something that Sebastian would not be able to deal with on a regular basis. Not to mention Jeff was a baby: just over the seventeen mark, he hardly qualified as someone Sebastian, eighteen-going-on-nineteen, would be interested in.

Anderson, on the other hand, was eighteen, according to Nick (who had been far too helpful in the whole endeavor, probably believing that Sebastian just wanted to look up some history on the old Warblers in some noble effort to learn about his predecessors). Sebastian had yet to figure out how he was an eighteen-year-old going into senior year. The most logical and simplest solution was that he had failed a grade somewhere along the line or been held back and thus was in his current predicament. Having looked over Anderson's all but flawless record at Dalton (again, courtesy of Nick, although Trent had provided some technical input when he expressed interest), he doubted that he had failed any courses, let alone an entire year. Even if he had, Sebastian had reasoned, as he watched Nick adoringly drone on about his former leader, there was no reason he wouldn't have taken summer school to remedy the error and thus continue on normally.

So. Either Anderson was lying about his age, or he had something else up his sleeve.

Sebastian discarded the first immediately. There was no way someone with that much of his heart-on-his-sleeve could possibly lie about something as pivotal as age to a school board.

So there was something else. Sebastian smiled inwardly, keeping his stoic, almost bored expression without in place. He enjoyed prying apart the more interesting characters he had come across, digging into their pasts until they had no choice but to at least accept small 'favors' for him. He had never forced them to do anything, never coerced them into more than was acceptable or reasonable, but he had done things like requested time and company, something that had usually eventually turned into a double-way relationship. He liked the boys he 'befriended,' they liked him, and all in all the situation worked out beautifully. As soon as either one of them bored himself with the other, they would sever it. Sebastian had made a point of always being the one to end relationships: he hated the idea of someone rejecting him. Not that he couldn't handle the emotional pain, as some would have guessed, but rather because he had to have control of the situation, and once the other person gained enough to set lines, that was a problem and required immediate termination.

Ending relationships was the easiest part, starting them the most entertaining, and the middle in between varied. Some guys had put up resistance at the beginning and seemed fiery only to crumple once he found kinks in their armors. Others had seemed calm and placid early on (types that wouldn't interest him, usually, aside from looks), only to erupt when he drew them into a relationship. He preferred those: anyone who became worse in a relationship was clearly not worth having in a relationship.

Anderson was different than the other guys he had come across. There was a mixture of fire and placidity about him, a cool collected-ness that differed with his short temper. It was almost like two Andersons inhabited that one (gorgeous) body: one was the lead Dalton Academy Warbler, the other an unknown that was a combination of his unreadable past and finicky present. The former he could handle with ease; the latter he wrestled with, indefinable, different. He was convinced that if he could figure out Anderson's 'unknown' quantity he could wrangle him under control, regardless of the so-called boyfriend he had.

Sebastian had dealt with guys that had boyfriends already when he first started flirting. Needless to say, most of them dropped their current boys for the extra excitement he provided, only to receive the fallout later on when Sebastian bored of them and moved on. Of course, a few sinister ones kept their old boyfriends while dating Sebastian. That was a recipe for disaster Sebastian loved kicking his feet up to and watching unfold. He always gave them the benefit of abandoning their current beaus before they started officially 'dating' him, but some were just too stubborn to openly confess they were willing to toss their high school sweethearts out the door for him.

Well. More fun for him, maneuvering around the boyfriend, always making sure that he put just a hint of suggestion into his words, a lacing of poison that would choke if not halt the boyfriend in his tracks.

He liked that Anderson had a boyfriend currently. Half of the fun of the game came from watching what he had created tumble down. It had to be artfully done, of course, thorough, complete, irreparable, or watching something new come from the ashes would only embarrass him.

Everyone who knew Sebastian beyond a cursory glancing of his records knew he was a bastard. Sebastian quite agreed, shameless about the whole affair. There was no point in going after what he wanted only to shy away from the labels weaker, less decisive people would label him afterwards.

Fixing Trume with a critical glance, Sebastian smiled, slow, broad. It was an unnerving gesture, something that had just a taste of suggestion that would make any straight guy uncomfortable, and sure enough Trume shifted uneasily in his seat as though he was already regretting his tentative alliance with Sebastian. I made you, Sebastian mused. You can't turn back now.

Trume was the product of his endeavors, the one insider he allowed to hear about them in full. A confidant, some would call him. He had dug himself in deep with Sebastian's past, determined to uproot him in some ways, and been enticed into the circle instead. Granted, he was straight and therefore off-limits for Sebastian's interests (that wasn't to say Sebastian had never flirted with straight men, purely to rile their nerves), but he was also intelligent and, when he was actually using that intelligence, smart enough to stay out of Sebastian's way. Trume had no power to stop him, no authority to back him, no trust with other members to back him. He could bleat all he wanted about Sebastian's nature but he didn't. He sank into the background, a garden snake retreating in the presence of a cobra, preferring his own minor affairs to the larger, twisted circles Sebastian wove around them.

Trume's sole useful function was this: I need to know more about so-and-so. It wasn't a full proof system, and there were times when Trume came up blank, but he knew how to talk to people in a way that Sebastian sometimes failed to charm. If he had no interest in them, he hardly wanted to speak with them, so his patience and people skills were rather minimal with anyone he was not interested in 'dating.' Trume handled the gentler souls out there that would clam up at the sight of Sebastian and welcome quiet authority with an extended hand and a smile.

On Anderson, Trume had directed him to his old friends. Any of the Warblers would have done, but it was important that he talk with people like Nick and Jeff in particular, since they had spent the longest time in Anderson's company. On all the basic points, they were helpful: they understood most of Anderson's life at Dalton, if not everything that happened, and they knew what his current life was like almost to a tee. There were noticeable gaps -- any light questions about family were shot down with a swift "He's an only child" -- especially in the pre-Dalton period, but Sebastian was slowly beginning to unearth new information.

He had one lead that looked promising: a record of Anderson's sophomore year. It would have been insubstantial to him if there wasn't a curious little footnote included (prohibited to student access, of course, unless you knew someone like Trent who did a little hacking for a good cause; Trent just didn't know that that good cause was Sebastian's next 'boyfriend'). Anderson was a transfer from Hawthorne high school.

That would have been the extent of his sophomore year records' helpfulness -- if Sebastian hadn't done just a little more digging.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded up piece of paper he had been holding since he entered the cafeteria, Trume's gaze mostly oriented back on his own papers as he looked up. He seemed to be pointedly avoiding Sebastian's gaze, he noted with amusement, unfolding the paper delicately and spreading it out before them.

"Our little golden boy forgot to mention this curio," he said, smoothing the wrinkles out of the paper with steady fingers. "Notice the school?"

Trume stared. Understandably, since the records were for Anderson's sophomore year -- at Hawthorne.

Now, why would someone want to retake a year at a private school? Sebastian had silently wondered, while flipping through the papers. Everything seemed well in order, his grades all passable (most exceptionally so), his courses all fulfilled and his prerequisites met. His attendance was good -- up until late March. After March thirty-first, Blaine Anderson never showed up at Hawthorne, and his first day back in school was September first -- at Dalton Academy. There was no correspondence between Anderson and his teachers, nothing to say that he hadn't vanished off the face of the earth after March thirty-first.

Something had happened on March thirty-first. Something that had changed him, something that Sebastian knew was the key to breaking him down. Some guys he could wear down through cookie-cutter methods. Persistence rarely failed, and it was tactically efficient. Rather than searching all the history on all the guys he had ever taken an interest in, he spent a few days 'assessing' before deciding whether they were placid or fiery. Then he spent a few more deciding whether they would be the same or reverse in a relationship and followed accordingly.

With Anderson, a mixture of the two, he had to specialize, and while it may have seemed like a supreme waste of time, Sebastian liked Anderson. On a physical and mental level -- stubborn personalities were more entertaining to wear down. The latter was something that he didn't usual both with in partners: if he was physically attracted, he would go for it, regardless of what sort of personality lurked beneath. Having an intriguing personality was simply a perk.

Thus, Sebastian was willing to do a little of under-the-surface perusing, learning, searching, starving for the challenge. It had been weeks since he had last had a genuine challenge: the prospect of an unknown excited him.

I'm going to break him down, he thought, without a scrap of remorse. Somehow.

Trume was still looking over the paper with a calculative eye, his expression closed off. Sebastian could almost see him mentally reviewing all of the information he had stored about March thirty-first, his eyes flickering abruptly to the left. Got it. Sebastian smirked, leaning back patiently, his hands folded. He knew.

"That's Sadie Hawkins night, isn't it?" he said at last, his voice contemplative.

Sebastian inclined his head. He didn't present Trume with information purely to be outwitted, though, so he had already looked up the date earlier and come to the same conclusion.

"He got kicked out," Trume said decisively, sounding self-assured.

Sebastian laughed softly. "Him? Really, Jacob? Use some of those brain cells for once. He has a flawless record. How could have gotten kicked out? He has no police record."

Except for one, Sebastian mused, waiting for Trume to draw the conclusion on his own. That was the nice thing about Trume: he kept up with Sebastian. Whereas Sebastian did his research beforehand, Trume could intuitively piece things together, given enough information.

There was a pensive darkening of Trume's eyes as he said slowly, "Something happened."

"How observant," Sebastian retorted, rolling his eyes. "Come on, Trume. Think a little."

Trume's brow furrowed. Then an eyebrow jumped upward and he blinked at Sebastian. "He was attacked?"

Sebastian smirked and nodded. "Yes. The reports are limited, but there's definite mention of a Blaine Anderson involved. Do you know what this means?"

Trume shook his head.

Sebastian wasn't disappointed: this was the part he wanted to explain. "It means," he said softly, the conspiratorial tone apropos in the otherwise empty cafeteria, "that he ran away from what happened to him. He didn't go back to Hawthorne, so clearly whatever happened was traumatizing enough that he didn't want to stay." Sebastian resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He hated weak people, but whoever Blaine Anderson had been before Dalton was dead, and this new Anderson interested Sebastian enough that he went on. "His shields are all built on the present. He has nothing to build off of, no foundations. Take away those shields, he has no second defense."

It was a dangerous maneuver, and it confirmed more than one of Sebastian's theories. Anderson's comfortable present depended on certain factors that existed only in the present. His family, his old school, and his old acquaintances -- things that logically would have been his first line of defense against threats -- were nonexistent. They shaped nothing that he was now, and if Sebastian could exploit that, he could rock Anderson's core.

Because Anderson -- clever bastard that he was -- didn't just wear his heart on his sleeve. He wore everything that he was on his sleeve. He hid his defenses in plain sight, surrounding himself with them. He was, in short, constantly retreating and never advancing, a strategy he distracted attention from by being ostentatiously independent. When Sebastian had first flirted with him, he was always on the defensive, leaning away and back, insisting on his own territory, his own space against an unknown. It was only once Sebastian had dented one of his defenses and threatened to crack his control that he had made any sort of aggressive advances.

Anderson was definitely a combination of calm and aggressive, a mixture that had two levels: the calm was his current reality, the aggression his past. When his defenses were stripped away, he reverted to the past. If he felt threatened or shut off, he became the unknown entity Sebastian had first been intrigued by.

Sebastian had been treating the entire situation wrong, in short. He had been treating Anderson like someone who was inherently calm with a few aggressive streaks. Obvious but mild flirting, conspicuous and loud but not too invasive.

Time to change strategies. Because once he exposed that aggressive, defenseless side of Anderson, he had him. Whether Anderson would ever reciprocate his interest, he didn't know or particularly care. Most did, some didn't. It didn't overtly worry Sebastian that there were some that remained continually skeptic and cynical and indifferent to him even while allowing him to be close. Anderson might be one of those people, but he was not nearly as invulnerable to change as he pretended. He had a boyfriend, he had a comfortable current life: both of which could be changed with a few well-timed attacks.

Carefully folding the paper and slipping it back inside his pocket, Sebastian gave Trume a long look before getting up and walking away without another word. Trume blinked after him, a little dazed, and Sebastian allowed himself a secret smile.

He would have to treat Anderson like an enemy. Victory was Sebastian's goal. If he had to destroy a little of Anderson's life in the process, so be it. No battles were ever fought without some losses, he could justifiably say that having Anderson at his side was worth tearing him away from some of his own human comforts.

And what better way, he mused, a mild smile plastered on his face as he walked down the halls back towards his dormitory, to crush one's enemy than to expose his weaknesses? No one had been able to tell Sebastian about Anderson's past like the records, and he knew that there wouldn't be prying eyes there once they saw the charisma Anderson presented to the world. He hadn't been so convinced, and his motivations were different, and now he had exactly what he needed to begin the battle: exposure.

Enjoy yourself, Anderson, he thought, climbing up the stairwell. Your friends gave me the information to destroy you.

* * *

Blaine was actually enjoying himself.

A thunderstorm had rolled in at around nine thirty, which had prompted a hasty re-collecting of the Halloween lights. "I don't want them to get all wet!" Hiram had exclaimed, all but vaulting over a bush to grab at them, Leroy close on his heels. It had also resulted Finn accidentally knocking out the power as he attempted to help the frantic duo peel the lights off the bushes before the rain became too intense.

"Of course he would knock out the power," Kurt had told him dryly, while Blaine watched the three run around from the relative safety of the kitchen.

Once power had been restored and Puck had hit Finn at least three times on the back of the head with the flat of his fake rapier, they were back in the basement with the rest of the New Directions, all of whom had dressed up for the party. Brittany was sitting on top of Rachel's washing machine-- 

"Brittany, what have I told you about not sitting on the furniture!"

"This is a washing machine," Brittany had retorted, confused by Rachel's anger.

\--while everyone else had piled in on the couches and even floor. Marcus growled at Finn as he tried to sit delicately beside him; Finn hastily relocated to sit beside Santana, who rolled her eyes at him and continued texting on her phone.

"Okay, everyone!" Rachel announced, beaming as she all but pranced down the stairs. Blaine quickly side-stepped so that she wouldn't leap onto him for sheer excitement and sat down on the floor besides Mike, who had a soccer ball tucked under one arm. He shrugged as though to say that he was acting in character. Blaine grinned at him. Tina was sitting next to Mercedes in her outfit, looking torn between stepping closer to sit beside Mike and the fact that she would be crossing 'Berry range' to do so.

"I have prepared--"

"Stop," Lauren said at once.

Rachel pouted. "This is my party," she pointed out.

"And we're your guests," Lauren argued, "which means you can't bore us to death." Then, pulling out a green box from nowhere, she asked the room at large, "Apples-to-Apples?"

There was a loud rumble of thunder from outside, filling the momentary silence that ensued. Then, Marcus said in his similarly rumbling tone, "I love that game."

Blaine had never played Apples-to-Apples with almost a dozen other people before, although he had definitely pulled David's ancient copy out on more than one occasion to play with a handful of Warblers from time to time for stress relief. Congregating in a big circle on the floor, they quickly established that while Apples-to-Apples itself wasn't intense, the game would be. Blaine saw Kurt roll his eyes slightly in exasperation from his seat beside Mercedes, a faint grin on his face as Santana quickly dealt out the cards.

First adjective: Bubbly.

Blaine grinned.

* * *

With the exception of Mike and Tina, both of whom remained resoundingly card-less, everyone had at least four adjectives, with Puck in the lead -- twenty-three -- and Rachel with the aforementioned four. Finn had seven, Santana eleven, Brittany six, Mercedes nine, Marcus eight, Lauren twelve, Artie seventeen, Kurt fourteen, and Blaine sixteen. Best out of 150 rounds won (Santana's rules). With thirteen rounds left, Artie, Puck, and Blaine were the top contenders. Finn, Rachel, Brittany, Mercedes, and Marcus were all mostly watching the proceedings, given that they could no longer claim victory against Puck's twenty-three with only thirteen cards left to possibly win. Santana was a long-shot -- she would have to win every single card -- and Lauren similarly difficult.

So it came down to Puck, Artie, Kurt, and Blaine.

While Rachel retreated to make popcorn with Brittany and Finn (a combination Blaine would have cringed at if he didn't know both of Rachel's dads were upstairs and would therefore prevent any misfortunate accidents), Puck dealt the next card.

He looked disgruntled that he was out of contending for this one because he was judging, Blaine mused, as he threw down a card half-heartedly. He didn't have any good cards in his current hand; the only way he was going to win would be if he picked up a better hand. Sure enough, that round went to Artie, who let out a "Damn straight!" as he punched the air and accepted the card.

Puck scowled at him. Blaine shifted a tiny bit so he wasn't sitting in between either of them in any way. If Puck made a lunge, he wanted to be as far away from an impromptu brawl as possible. Mike seemed to be thinking along the same lines beside him, Lauren looking unperturbed from her seat next to Blaine. She would probably jump right in, Blaine mused, which would have been interesting, to say the least.

Kurt swept the floor the next five hands, however, putting him in serious contention for first. Puck's gaze had switched from Artie to Kurt, his rapier balanced on his knees as he stared at his cards intently. He still held the lead, but he had to win some cards if he wanted to guarantee victory. With seven cards to go, he still had a chance, and Blaine was still silently betting that Puck would win.

Puck did win the next hand. But Kurt won the next two. Twenty-four to twenty-one, five cards to go. Blaine actually set his cards down (most of the rest of the New Directions had folded) and watched as Artie dealt out the hand, his expression miffed that he had to sit on the sidelines. It was close, but Kurt won again. Twenty-four to twenty-two. Four cards left. The rest of the New Directions had withdrawn to heighten the opportunity for Kurt to win or Puck to increase his lead.

Twenty-five to twenty-two. Three cards left.

Brittany was judging (even though they had withdrawn the judging circle remained intact). Kurt won. Twenty-five to twenty-three. Mike's turn. Twenty-five to twenty-four.

One card left.

Blaine was grateful that Puck's rapier was one-hundred-percent fake, although Kurt's sai swords were real and quite dangerous if he wanted them to be. The intensity of the glares they both sent him would have convinced him that they were angry at him if he didn't know better. Taking care to pull off the adjective off the pile, he set it down and closed his eyes. If he looked, he would know whose card was whose, and while he would never purposefully choose Kurt's (well, fine; while he would usually do his best not to be totally biased), it did eliminate the possibility of deliberately biasing.

Two cards were put down. Blaine opened his eyes and picked them up once he was sure that both Puck and Kurt was sitting back.

Adjective: Crooked.

Blaine didn't even see the other option -- he laughed at the first and tossed it on top of the adjective.

Finn pouted while Kurt leaped up with a "Yes!"

"'Brothers'? Really, Kurt?"

* * *

Puck had his revenge by picking out a good set of horror movies for the next couple hours, the popcorn finally ready as Rachel returned with four bowls in hand. Finn staked claim on one, Puck another, and the rest were distributed around. Then they picked various spots, Rachel turned on the massive flat-screen her fathers had invested in after the twelfth place at Nationals (apparently it was a celebratory moment, even if Finn and she had rather ruined the New Directions' chance to advance), and started the movies.

To Blaine, it didn't seem like revenge at first. Kurt pointedly took a seat beside him on the floor, yes, which he should have registered as odd (Kurt didn't like appearing so lackadaisical in public, even if it was just among friends) but didn't. Blaine wasn't even paying attention to the movie besides a vague interest, instead musing over the way Kurt actually sat so close to him their entire sides were pressed against each other. About ten minutes into the movie, Kurt's fingers slid down his wrist and latched onto his hand loosely. Blaine rubbed it back in return, absentminded, and almost missed the way that grip tightened when the scene shifted on screen.

Then he couldn't help noticing the way Kurt linked arms with him, just a smooth sliding movement that meant Blaine was suddenly pressed even closer to him, if possible. He wondered vaguely if this was the moment where he was supposed to take a hint, but since devouring flesh was not exactly romantic, he just let Kurt hold his arm and watched as Artie leaned forward in anticipation.

Crack!

Blaine actually missed what had happened on screen, bemused with Kurt's closeness, and therefore he didn't know whether they were at the point of skinning or decapitating. Either way, Kurt was no longer just holding his arm: he had his face buried against Blaine's shoulder. Since Kurt had longer legs than Blaine, they were almost the same height sitting down as they were, Kurt's head fitting neatly in place. A little concerned but also generally amused, Blaine let him.

So this was why people went to scary movies as dates, he mused.

He had watched plenty horror movies with the Warblers before, and personally he wasn't bothered by them. A few struck a little close to home -- he hated the ones that involved parking lots, for example, courtesy of the Sadie Hawkins dance -- but for the most part he didn't mind them.

Wes and David were stoic, but Jeff always panicked and Cameron would leave the second blood came into play. It was amusing to watch the Warblers' reactions, especially when Blaine discovered that Wes freaked out about Paranormal Activity for some unfathomable reason. David did, too, and while it had been amusing to watch them during the day, the consequent hourly visits that night from the duo had been nothing short of exasperating.

In the end, they all ended up on Blaine's bed, with Blaine underneath the covers and Wes and David passed out beside him. He had jumped halfway out of bed in the morning when David's arm smacked him in the face, and there was a great deal of chaos before they had gotten everything back in order, with Blaine under firm orders never to play that movie again and Wes and David under a strict no-sleeping-in-my-bed-without-warning-me-first condition. (Of course, they argued that they had warned him, but Blaine had rolled his eyes and reminded them that after four a.m. he wasn't liable for his own reactions. Night owl or not, once he was out, he was out, and generally didn't tend to wake up mentally until at least seven or eight.)

Of course, the only other times Wes or David had taken advantage of that card had been when Wes had mono and David had accidentally gotten drunk (Jeff admitted later to lacing his drink on a dare, which had earned him a sound scolding from Blaine). The former had been gross -- there was no worse bed-mate than a sick person, but David had been out of town and Blaine was the only person Wes could think of to turn to in his pathetic state -- and the latter unruly (Blaine had to pry David off him seven times; David kept insisting on cuddling at odd hours of the night). It had should have warned Blaine off getting drunk at the Rachel Berry Train Wreck House Party Extravaganza, but he had ignored experience and suffered for it.

Poor Kurt. He had to put up with me like that.

He winced slightly at the implications of that before focusing back on the present. Kurt's face was still hidden; he looked disinclined to move any time soon. Musing, Blaine gently disentangled their arms -- Kurt made a barely audible disgruntled noise -- and looped his around his waist instead. Kurt seemed to like the arrangement, for he draped his arm around Blaine's waist a moment later.

He didn't even bother watching the rest of the movie, his mind elsewhere while his hand stroked Kurt's side lightly. If he listened closely enough, he could hear Hiram complaining about the weather above, Leroy fretting about how they were supposed to celebrate if it was miserable outside. It amused him, how domestic they were, just two normal parents wondering about different problems while their daughter watched a horror movie with her friends downstairs. (Well. Blaine didn't know if they knew they were watching horror movies, but they had to have some idea.)

Resting his head lightly against Kurt's, correctly guessing that he wouldn't be making a re-emergence any time soon, Blaine could almost hear the doorbell ringing. Too clearly, he could hear James trampling inside, his mother making some vague comment from the kitchen not to break anything as Blaine leaped up to meet James. He was the only person that knew Blaine was out -- the only person who wouldn't care either way -- and he grinned at Blaine. "Come on," he said. "We're already late, Sadie's going to kill you."

Blaine rolled his eyes and shoved him forward, his towering height matched with a leanness born from constantly being involved in lacrosse and hockey and any other sport that would have him. "She can wait," he said, ushering James out the door with a similarly airy call in his mother's direction that he would be back eventually.

James drove, blasting the radio, the vacant throb of noise a lost tune. Blaine's memory skittered -- he lost track of what happened next but picked up at the batting cage, where Sadie was carefully wielding one of the bats, a fierce expression on her face. "Come on, Sadie!" James said, clapping his hands and leaning back against the bench beside Blaine.

Sadie swung -- Shit, duck! -- and, after the ball flew over both their heads as James and Blaine dove for the ground, they laughed. "Oh, damn, sorry, guys!" Sadie called apologetically, James howling with laughter.

"You are dangerous," he shouted, still laughing. "Damn, girl, nearly took off my head!"

"Like you have better aim," she said contemptuously, bopping him on the head as he got back to his feet. "Come on, we've gotta go find that."

Fast-forward, fast-forward, fast-forward. Pause.

"So, who're you taking to the Sadie Hawkins dance?" Sadie asked, feet propped up on the coffee table in front of her, her brown hair dangling over one shoulder as she combed through a few snags. Her older brother Mark was in the kitchen making something -- Blaine couldn't remember what -- singing along with the radio. "Mark, shut up!" she added in his direction.

Blaine shrugged. Sadie rolled her eyes at him and leaned forward. "You can't go stag," she said, sniffing.

"Girls ask the guys," he pointed out. "I can't help it, either way."

"Yes, you can."

Blaine raised an eyebrow.

"Luke?"

Blaine winced a little. "Sadie, he's--"

"Gorgeous," Sadie interrupted.

That, Blaine couldn't deny. He remembered Luke -- black hair, blue eyes, healthy stature that was neither slender nor heavy -- and he remembered his surprise when he saw how openly Luke talked to him about the fact that he was gay.

It's not a prison sentence, he had told Blaine, while they walked down the halls, Luke's presence repelling the jocks. You can choose how this will affect you. I know you came out -- congratulations -- but now you have to choose whether you're going to act on it or not.

Blaine bit his lip. That gesture seemed to stretch forever, Mark's obscene singing and Sadie's absent chatter dying away.

Ask him, a small voice whispered. Just ask him to the dance. What's the worst that can happen?

Fade out.

"Blaine! Can you take over the stand?"

"What?" Blaine yelped, as James dragged him towards the DJ stand, shaking his head frenetically. "I don't know how any of this works, James, don't--"

"It's an emergency!" James said, expression pained.

"What do you me--"

"Girlfriend," James said, already jogging away.

"James!"

"I'll be back in twenty!" he called back.

Luke offered him a small, amused smile as he glanced in his direction. Blaine stared at all of the buttons. How did anyone use this thing? And how could someone like James possibly know?

He noticed James' discarded blue sunglasses off to one side and grinned a little to himself as he picked them up and pulled them on. Then he paused -- no way.

James had brought his pink sunglasses, lying just so that most people wouldn't even see them, sitting under half of the equipment.

Don't, his rational side berated. This was Hawthorne. Not some place where guys like him could just go around wearing pink sunglasses.

That's so gay.

Steeling himself, he reached down, replaced the sunglasses, and pulled on the pink shades anyway

They blurred faces, just enough that he could almost fool himself none of them were real, that it was just him and the music. Luke was real -- standing in a corner watching him with a grin, shaking his head in fond amusement. Good job, he mouthed.

And for one foolish, naïve hour, Blaine had truly believed that everything would be okay. That he might start seriously dating Luke, that the school was finally getting over its unreasonable prejudices, that he might actually survive high school.

The latter was true, but not at Hawthorne.

"Is it over?" a voice asked softly.

Blaine felt almost dizzied as he returned to the present, glancing at Kurt, glad that nothing had changed. James wasn't knocking at the door. Sadie hadn't nearly taken his head off with a baseball on accident. Mark wasn't singing in the kitchen. Luke wasn't standing there, just as innocent, just as naïve as he was, despite being almost a year older.

Blaine's throat ran dry on that last thought.

Kurt lifted his head slowly, quickly brushing his hair back into place, offering Blaine a thoughtful frown. "What's wrong?" he asked. "It's just a movie," he added in an attempt to be joking.

Blaine closed his eyes briefly. Not for me. "It's nothing," he said aloud, grateful that Hiram called down that there were cookies if anyone wanted some a moment later, distracting their attention.

Kurt still eyed him skeptically before resting his forehead against the side of Blaine's head. "Whatever it is," he said, words meant for Blaine's ears alone, "we're okay."

Blaine didn't respond.

For now, his logical side reminded silently.

* * *

"Okay, that is so not fair," Blaine said, huffing as he sat back.

"Is too," Finn retorted. "Anything goes in Monopoly."

"You two are childish to a degree that is insulting of your ages," Kurt pointed out dryly. He had been watching the trio play -- Rachel was looking at the board with a determined expression on her face -- and generally amusing himself with the constant little arguments that broke out between Finn and Blaine. Finn didn't understand the rules very well, so it was understandable that he would be contested, but the fact that Blaine had now made it almost a game in itself to see how often he could point out a fault in Finn's gaming techniques, they were almost more invested in that than the actual Monopoly.

"You can't just skip jail."

"Haven't you ever heard of bail?"

"There's no bail in Monopoly."

"There's bail in real life."

Kurt leaned against Blaine's shoulder to stop him from arguing with that. "Just go with it," he murmured.

Blaine huffed slightly again. "Whose side are you on?" he accused lightly.

Kurt rolled his eyes and pinched his side. "Guess."

Blaine cast him a sideways look before shaking his head a little and returning to the game. Kurt had been worried about him after the movie -- although he had had no desire to watch horrific things happen to the poor idiots on-screen, he could tell that Blaine didn't mind -- since he had been so . . . subdued. Blaine was always energetic, even if it was quiet. Then he had just seemed off, like someone had drained him past the rebound point and he didn't know where to go.

An hour of lighthearted activity had boosted his mood, though, and by the time they had narrowed it down to Monopoly, he seemed largely like his old self.

It amazed him how Blaine was such a good person after everything he had been through. Kurt didn't know if he would have fared as well in the same circumstances, especially without people like Finn to support him just when he felt like there was no one on his side.

Yet here was Blaine, happy, loving, wonderful Blaine.

I don't know how you do it, Kurt admitted silently.

Blaine looked over at him, shook his head in mock-exasperation at Finn, and grinned.

Kurt smiled back.

Never change, he thought. You're perfect.


	26. Chapter 26

Blaine had known from the moment he decided to sever all ties with Hawthorne that bad karma would somehow come around to bite him. He had no idea that that karma would come in the form of aWarbler, but it had, and now that he was facing the consequences of his own fatalistic inevitability, it was hard to describe what he felt.

Part of him was angry. That was the same side of him that had resented having to retake his sophomore year and thus bumping up his high school sentence from four years to five.

Another part was disappointed. He had half expected greater fanfare when the announcement was made, that he would somehow catch Sebastian in the act of divulging the information to Jacob Ben Israel (because who else could have told McKinley's most notorious gossip about his confidential past?). There had been no such issue: Sebastian had evidently picked his time more wisely and done so out of sight of prying eyes.

The largest percentage of him was simply shocked. Overwhelmingly, blindingly, disbelievingly surprised that the past he had successfully kept under lock-and-key for three years was suddenly the 'latest news' at McKinley.

It was strange, seeing faces orient on him half-searching for scars, bruises even, broken bones or some other gruesome reminder of the incident. Blaine had purposefully refused to go out in public while the bruises on his face were healing, and had been wary for a time with any bruises evident. They were disgusting, especially in the later stages of healing, when blue, purple, and black gave way to sickly shades of yellow.

He had been half-convinced that they couldn't possibly exist, the surreal nature of the winding colors impossible to fully comprehend. The pain was there -- he went out of his way to make sure he didn't bump into things for months -- but there was nothing that made his brain accept it fully.

The people in the hallways just knew that Blaine Anderson had been beaten up on the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance badly enough that he had fled from Hawthorne high and transferred schools. Some looked at him with pity that he had avoided for a reason back at home: he didn't want to see friends' face constantly shift from that involuntary poor you look back to a more mild variation.

It was no better seeing it on strangers' faces. If anything, it was worse: these people had not known him two days ago as anything more than the person Jeremy Bletcher chose to annihilate unsuccessfully. Now they knew him as the victim of a brutal assault, and it was strange how one label changed everything.

Blaine had left Hawthorne for three very specific reasons, not least of which was his concern for his own safety.

The faculty had promised -- repeatedly -- that he would be in no danger despite every warning he had given about the jocks that taunted him. Sometimes they pushed things a little too close for comfort and he was forced to report them, consequently building up a long-term bad relationship that slowly morphed into hatred as he nailed all of them at one point or another. By the time freshman year was over, he had a long list of enemies and a short list of friends, but said-friends were loyal to a fault and better than most people he had encountered in the remaining four years of his high school career.

Blaine knew the others that had known and befriended the same guys that had beaten him and Luke up would be eager for some tasteful vengeance. He had been genuinely fearful for his life at Hawthorne and he had left because of it. It was as simple as that, and he knew that that reason alone was highly justifiable.

The next reason was harder to explain away. He had not simply left Hawthorne with a neat public service announcement to say he was terrified and could no longer attend. He had vanished off the face of the earth, for all that anyone at Hawthorne could judge. Faculty and students alike were left in the dark about any specifics; even the principle knew only the most basic information that he needed to take Blaine off the registers permanently.

The hitch: no one, including his friends, knew exactly what had happened to him.

Perhaps three or four weeks passed where his friends attempted to contact him. Every time Blaine would check his phone there would be dozens of texts from James and Sadie, mixed with others from various numbers. Mostly he just hit the delete all button and watched as, within two or three seconds, all of the messages were erased. It had been hard, and more than once he had hated himself for leaving them so in the dark (if he had been in either of their positions, he knew, he certainly would have pitched a fit), but he couldn't help himself.

He had to make the job thorough, complete, absolute, and the only way to do so was to be certain that no one knew about his life after the event.

And that was the third reason: he had no idea how to live his life at Hawthorne after the incident. Even though medically he had survived, he knew that the naïve fifteen-year-old he had been had died as soon as the first blow fell and his memory of the incident became mixed and uncertain. The only way to recover had been to pick up and leave, to flee from the life that he could no longer handle and the people he had no interest in seeing again (most of them, he reminded himself, since there were still those select few that he deeply regretted not seeing anymore).

Dalton had taken a cursory look over his records to ensure that there was nothing meaningful about his transfer before deciding that he would make a fine student and accepting him. No one -- besides a very few, elected by Dean Jacob Barter as necessary confidants -- understood the magnitude of his transfer beyond the fact that he was forced to retake sophomore year. They just thought of him as a regular sophomore at first, a short junior later on, and eventually a mixture of the two that came to be known simply as Blaine Warbler.

He had had his past destroyed, built a life anew, seen that new life fading away, and then transferred to McKinley to start another turbulent chapter.

And now Sebastian had merged two of his polar opposites: the Blaine of Hawthorne and the Blaine of McKinley.

While Blaine knew that he would be missing classes if he didn't leave the auditorium soon, he could not make himself go back out in the halls and listen to Jacob Ben Israel concluding his report. The days he had dreaded ever returning to were finally here, and in less than twenty four hours one idiot had completely ripped away the wall he had built around that past.

There were only three people under the age of twenty alive that had heard of the incident from Blaine's own telling: Wes, David, and Kurt.

Now, everyone at McKinley would know, including the glee club. Blaine had that first, but he wasn't certain if he could honestly get his legs to move anymore: they seemed just as boneless as he felt, useless, deadweights. The thought of them knowing that Blaine wasn't simply the choice target of slushying but also a victim of assault made him cringe.

Kurt had hinted at it, once, while he was around Finn and Burt, judging outfits for Prom, and Blaine had involuntarily sunk back, inwardly horrified that Kurt would go around re-stating the story, before Kurt deflected with a completely different thought. Blaine had been relieved and, he hated to admit, selfishly glad that Kurt would not tell his family without Blaine's consent. Whether the thought of receiving or not receiving consent had ever passed Kurt's mind, Blaine didn't know, but he was grateful nevertheless that he had not had to deal with the Hudson-Hummels knowing about it then.

Well, he mused bitterly, they'll know now.

There was no way that the Hudson-Hummels could ignore this now that word was everywhere -- even people who were completely indifferent (i.e. his parents) would notice, at least minimally.

Blaine rubbed his forehead against the throbbing headache building up.

That had nothing to do with the head injury he had received two months ago, but even that was a product of transferring to McKinley. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that, rationally, he should be disturbed by the pattern of experiences he had had at McKinley insofar. Two attempts on his life and now publicity on an incident he had spent years concealing were not encouraging signs, yet he was surprised to realize that he did not want to transfer back to Dalton. Kurt's here. Sebastian's there.

He was more than happy to leave second-guessing at that.

Distantly, Blaine heard the first bell of the day ring.

Get up, his inner drill sergeant ordered. It's not the end of the world. He just announced what people could already have known if they dug a few old papers out or watched different news would know. It's not that big of a deal.

He sighed and dropped his hand against the armrest. Easy put, in words. Difficult to actually follow through with.

Get up, the same voice repeated. You shouldn't be moping about this. It's childish and pathetic. It happened three years ago. Move on.

It had happened almost three years ago. But the impact had followed him every day since, in some small ways affecting everything that happened since.

If the assault had never taken place, for example, he and Luke might be dating now instead of him and Kurt. That possibility was a little eerie to contemplate, particularly since Blaine didn't really want to follow the alternate route his life would have taken if said-path didn't involve Kurt.

He would be a college freshman by now if the attack had never happened, and he probably would be at some distant big-name school just so his parents could brag to their friends that their son went to so-and-so.

More likely than not, he would never have met Wes, David, or any of the other Warblers.

He would never have joined a glee club in high school or won competitions or earned the title of lead soloist.

He would never have watched Finn swallow eleven pancakes in a row (an experience that was scarring to this day).

In the end, he would never have become the new Blaine, the better Blaine, the Blaine he was proud to be now. Mentoring Kurt's former bully about how to be open about his sexuality, yes, and friends with a guy who could easily become a linebacker for the NFL. But still him.

Drawing in a deep breath to steel himself, Blaine stepped out of his seat and strode towards the door, bracing himself mentally for the day beyond.

* * *

"My poll numbers are in," Kurt said breathlessly.

Most of the New Directions had congregated in their usual seats, but Schuester -- as per usual -- was running late, so class had yet to officially begin. Offering Kurt a smile as he took his own seat, Blaine did his best to look optimistically at the situation. Kurt doesn't know. And if he doesn't know, word couldn't have traveled that far. So you're worried about nothing.

Relaxing a little, he did his best to listen attentively to the straw poll drawn up about the class presidential campaigns. Apparently Kurt still had a sizeable lead, even though Rachel's numbers had crawled to a slightly higher percentage. Brittany remained stagnant, but looking over at her, Blaine didn't think she looked too bothered by this outlook: she was staring at Puck as he demonstrated the proper way to handle his beheaded rapier. (The blade was banned by school policy, of course, although somehow he had managed to get the handle permitted.)

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, startling Blaine out of his reverie.

"Nothing," he said reflexively.

Kurt frowned at him and opened his mouth to say that it was most definitely not nothing -- Blaine could almost see the indignation that Blaine would dismiss his issues rising -- but Schuester chose that moment to burst into the room and Blaine was mercifully relieved from having to respond. "Morning, guys!" he said, ever cheerful, dropping a two-foot tall stack of dictionaries on the piano bench. "Happy Halloween! I brought you some presents."

"Is it candy?" Brittany asked at once.

"No," Schuester said, still beaming, as he grabbed a book off the top of the list. "Rhyming dictionaries! Remember these?"

"Oh, damn, I thought we burned all those," Mercedes whispered.

"He must have bought a new set," Kurt murmured back.

The copies did look new, Blaine mused, as Schuester distributed the books around. He turned his copy over absently in his hands while Mercedes and Kurt continued to whisper urgently.

"I thought he over-budgeted and couldn't get more books?" Mercedes was saying.

"He probably blackmailed Figgins or something," Kurt pointed out.

Mercedes gave him a dubious look. "Blackmailed Figgins? With what?"

"Hey, if Coach Sylvester could do it, I'm sure Mr. Schue could figure out something."

"Coach Sylvester could dismantle a satellite," Mercedes reminded flatly.

Kurt tilted his head in concession. "True."

"We need to start seriously preparing for sectionals," Schuester continued in his Serious Voice TM. "Competitions come up faster than you think, and we need to keep on top of things this year. It's the last chance for many of you and we want to make it spectacular, so we've got to work hard."

"Come on, Schuester," Puck complained. "It's Halloween. Are you really going to make us sit down with rhyming dictionaries and come up with some bull crap for competitions right now? We should be outside chilling on our asses and instead they drop us off here." He shook his head as though to demonstrate the travesty of the situation.

"Well," Schuester said, somehow not offended by comment, "I recognize that today is a holiday--"

"So we don't have to work?" Mercedes put in quickly.

"Oh, you have to work," Schuester assured, "but not on the rhyming dictionaries. Not today," he added, very firmly, as relieved sighs sounded from other seats around the room. Kurt rolled his eyes and Mercedes followed suit as she stuffed her rhyming dictionary into her bag. It shouldn't be too hard to lose this, was clear in her expression.

Blaine carefully slid his book inside his satchel. He might actually use it, if he couldn't perform and did end up songwriting. Who knows, he mused, it might even be helpful.

"Last year we were able to meet with several other teams that we were competing against," Schuester went on, "and we built positive relationships with them."

Blaine could see the sour tinge to Kurt's expression, mirrored by Mercedes', and silently concluded that 'positive' was a euphemism for 'nonexistent.'

"This year," he added, clasping his hands, "one of those teams asked if they could visit and I accepted. Without further adieu, let's give a warm welcome to--"

He's kidding. It's not--

"--the Warblers!"

It was.

"Hello, everyone," Sebastian said, stepping into the room.

Blaine savagely bit back the urge to scream.

Later, he warned, as the angry side of him flared. Later. Kurt doesn't know. No one else knows. The news hasn't spread.

Yet.

Kurt's expression was dark. If Blaine hadn't known by his bubbly report, he would have sworn that Kurt had already figured it out.

Schuester stepped back to let the rest of the Warblers inside, and it reminded Blaine of two rival gangs coming into contact after a long period of warring. No threats were openly exchanged, but it was clear from everyone's expression and stance that a single wrong move would spark. Sebastian leaned against the piano and surveyed them with neutral eyes, for all the world like he was simply a student visiting a boring museum. Several of the older Warblers threw Blaine cautious looks, a strange knowing in their gazes that made Blaine's heart sink. He clenched a fist over his knee against temptation.

Not now, he told himself sternly. Not here.

Kurt noticed and his expression darkened another shade, if possible, before he reached over and gripped the back of Blaine's fist, silently staking a claim. Blaine didn't release his fist. If he wanted to keep his head, he couldn't.

Jeff and Nick looked almost sheepish as they trailed in after the rest, shuffling around so they were standing near the front. Schuester lingered on the Warbler's side, oblivious to the unspoken threat between the two groups. The tension on the New Directions' end was purely competitive; the Warblers had more reasons to dislike the New Directions, the rival glee club that had stolen their lead soloist.

You replaced me with him, Blaine reminded them all silently, staring Sebastian down.

The latter's lips twitched in the faintest of grins before he repressed it. Kurt's fingers actually dug into Blaine's fist a little; Blaine didn't flinch.

"So you're the New Directions," Sebastian said, voice soft. It was obvious why: the contempt in his voice was clear enough that he could have been mouthing the words and they would have still heard it. Puck reared up like a bull dog on a leash, a snarl visible on his lips. You don't even need to fight him here, Blaine thought, they'll fight him for you, for no other reason than he annoys them. "Nice to meet you," he added tonelessly. It was actually an improvement, as far as being nicer went.

Puck stood up, looking fully prepared to stab his headless rapier through Sebastian. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"Funny you ask," Sebastian said, voice bright and poisonous. "We felt it would be more appropriate to do this in person." His gaze never strayed from Blaine as he smirked. Blaine could feel the anger freezing as fear overtook -- he won't, there's no way, not in front of everyone -- and he actually jerked his hand away from Kurt's as he leaned forward, anticipation making him restless.

"I don't think we should continue this conversation," Finn said, staring at Sebastian. Blaine couldn't see his expression well from this angle, but he was certain he wasn't smiling.

"It's nothing you shouldn't already know," Sebastian assured. "Besides, he's your member."

All eyes flickered to Blaine.

"If you're just here to insult us," Rachel began heatedly.

"Get out," Finn finished.

Marcus said nothing, but the impressive growl that reverberated across the room could have come from no one else and seemed to momentarily silence everyone.

"Haven't you heard the morning report?" Sebastian asked in a mock-innocent tone.

Mercedes' brow furrowed. Blaine's heart felt like it was either going to burst out of his chest or stop cold. He didn't know which would be more unpleasant; both sounded equally likely and painful. There was no mistaking the vague recognition in Mercedes' expression. She had heard. Probably dismissed it as a falsehood, at first; Jacob Ben Israel would not exactly make the top ten lists of 'credible sources.'

But she had heard.

And now Sebastian was--

"Stop," Schuester said suddenly.

Blaine stared at him. He was certain that the rest of the room was staring, too, but Schuester looked surprisingly unalarmed despite being outnumbered. "I agreed to have you visit because you would be civil," he said. "If you have something to say to one of us, you have something to say to all of us. And I don't appreciate my glee club being insulted." He seemed to swell a little at the mention of the last, bolstered by the fact that it was his glee club.

Sebastian stood his ground. "Of course," he said, his voice almost neutral enough to pass for apologetic. "We simply came to clear up some of the facts. We have no intention of offending anyone." He shrugged as though this should have been obvious. Just keep smiling,Blaine warned silently.

"What kind of facts?" Mercedes demanded flatly. She sounded as close to punching Sebastian as Blaine was, if possible.

Sebastian smiled, and the cold pit of fear in Blaine's stomach turned to ice.

He didn't, he deadpanned.

But Sebastian had.

To everyone else, it was an anticlimax. A tall, brown-haired boy entered the choir room sporting a visitor's pass and a passive expression.

His gaze found Blaine immediately and he actually staggered back a step.

"Blaine," Sebastian said softly, "James. James -- Blaine."

Blaine's heart stopped cold.

* * *

Kurt could tell that something was wrong, even if he didn't know what that something was. It was the exact same pre-nausea feeling he had had the day Jeremy Bletcher had set the first fire to the chemistry lab: a sense of forbidding that began as a subtle ache and quickly escalated to full-blown panic. When he had found out that the fire alarm had been real, he had been somewhat concerned; when he had realized that Blaine, Brittany, and Mercedes were somehow trapped underneath the burning chemistry lab, 'mild concern' had shot straight past 'horrified' and 'terrified' to shock. In retrospect, he was amazed that he had been texting Blaine during the incident; shouldn't he have been calling, demanding a farewell or at least a promise of survival? The former seemed practical, the latter optimistic and largely preferable. Either way, he knew that he had not, and somehow he wasn't overly bothered by that. Talking to Blaine might have made it too real, too clear that he was really trapped underneath the chemistry lab about to be suffocated unless he took evasive action.

So when Blaine walked into the choir room seven minutes late, Kurt knew immediately that something had happened. His first instinct was to ask him, but Blaine's expression was closed and his body language uncompromising, so Kurt tried a different tactic: cheerfulness. It worked for a time, Blaine even quirking a smile and managing to nod along, but it was clear he was distracted. They had entered the school at different times (Kurt had been delayed when Rachel had an 'emergency' with her plans for the night and demanded his practical advice while Finn and Blaine walked), so something must have occurred between the time Blaine entered and Kurt stepped into the choir room.

What's wrong? he wondered.

He only realized he had said it aloud when Blaine shrugged it off. Opening his mouth to say that he wasn't Finn, he did have a few perceptive brain cells, he was cut off as Mr. Schue entered the choir room and began, in his usual jocular tone, to describe their latest scheme to win sectionals.

With many looks at Mercedes and much inward sighing, Kurt listened as best he could while still fully aware of the tension around Blaine, an unspoken pressure that seemed on the verge of snapping at any moment. Determined not to be outwardly forceful, Kurt laid low, waiting for Blaine to organize his thoughts on his own, before suddenly Mr. Schue started backing away from the door, a grin plastered on his face.

Kurt tuned back in just in time to hear him say, ". . . a warm welcome to the Warblers!"

His good mood evaporated on the spot. He suddenly understood why Blaine's expression was so abysmal -- clearly, he had had a warning that this would happen and knew that Sebastian (who, sure enough, walked through the door a moment later, looking just as condescending and confident as before) would be coming. It definitely explained his dark expression, and the way he leaned forward a little, the tension in his shoulders winding up a few notches.

Why he hadn't told Kurt, Kurt didn't know, but he reached out and gripped the back of Blaine's hand to let him know he was there. Blaine didn't even look at him, gaze fixed on Sebastian, face darker and somehow paler than before.

There's more, a tiny voice in Kurt whispered.

The entire conversation started as badly as Kurt had predicted it would and descended quickly. Puck was already on his feet, his beheaded rapier wielded like a staff, and Finn was working his way towards challenging Sebastian. The latter stared unconcernedly back at them all and flicked his gaze to Blaine after several moments.

Blaine stiffened and jerked his hand away from Kurt's. Although now curious and worried, Kurt let him retreat. There was something about his demeanor that said interference would not be appreciated.

"What kind of facts?" Mercedes asked sharply.

Kurt did his best to focus on the present conversation, but it was hard, given all the different signals he was receiving. The rest of the Warblers were mostly stoic, but there were a few familiar faces -- Jeff and Nick most notable among them -- that were watching with almost miserable expressions. Several of the older Warblers looked somewhat uncomfortable, as well, but the middle group of underclassmen simply stood like machines, unbothered, unmoved. They're a team, Kurt mused, they'll support each other, regardless of the morality of it.

A Finn doppelganger stepped into the choir room.

Well, Kurt noticed, upon closer reflection, he wasn't actually a Finn look-alike: the features were different, sharper, narrower, a little less innocent-browed and more stern. This was an intelligent, experienced, older version of Kurt's stepbrother. He had the same general build; a little bulkier, a little more muscular, but otherwise the same. Brown hair, brown eyes. Unremarkable.

Wondering who this newcomer was, Kurt almost missed the way Blaine skittered out of his chair so fast it tipped over. He was out of the choir room's only other door before Sebastian could finish clasping his hands together in a satisfied manner, his smirk broad and visible. Mr. Schue looked puzzled, but Kurt only wasted three seconds wondering before deciding, This is bad.

And there was only one person responsible.

The rest of the Warblers were still watching the newcomer with visible confusion; Nick and Jeff were pointedly averting their gazes. The tall almost Finn-double was staring after Blaine as though he was a ghost.

One minute passed in silence. Then Sebastian said softly, "So he always runs away."

And then Kurt didn't remember exactly how many steps it took to get from the top row to the bottom tier or whether the newcomer stepped aside or simply shifted his weight.

All he knew was that in the next moment he had grabbed Sebastian by the collar and shoved him out into the hall so hard even Finn would have been impressed. With reflexes born from his days under Coach Sylvester's regime, he kicked the door shut behind him, leaving the Warblers and New Directions to resolve their own problems. They could handle themselves -- they were all high school students. Kurt could hear someone running down the hall -- they're not supposed to run in the halls -- before Sebastian twisted his arm partially around.

It was very satisfying driving a knee in his groin.

By sheer instinct or dumb luck, Sebastian managed to wrestle them both to the floor, and any politeness was quickly forgotten as Kurt's sole objective became beat the bastard's pretty face in. Sebastian seemed just as interested in returning the favor, a fact that Kurt couldn't help noticing even as his limbs operated on auto-pilot to deflect and return blows. He remembered that they were on school property and this was about as non-school appropriate as it came but, well, Sebastian had gone too far.

He had come to McKinley. That was Kurt's turf. No one hurt Kurt Hummel's boyfriend on the home front.

So, like any good Hummel would, Kurt stood up for his own honor and damned school rules.

* * *

"Blaine, talk to me!" James shouted as he rounded a corner. Blaine ignored him, scrambling up a stairwell. He was suddenly glad that McKinley was so disorganized: whereas any stranger could navigate his way around Dalton with a good enough sense of direction and a little deduction, McKinley had virtually no organizational system whatsoever. Evasion was simple when there were at least four alternate routes to every decision he made, yet somehow James managed to keep pace with him, always one hallway behind, just paces away.

The knowledge that Jacob Ben Israel had published his past to the entirety of McKinley (and whoever else tapped into his glog) had been a plethora of emotions: worrying and angering foremost among them.

There were no words for how he felt about James Peterson, once-upon-a-time one of his closest friends, returning after an almost three-year absence.

What next? he wondered, scanning the halls for a potential quick escape. At this point, he was almost willing to take an emergency exit and trigger the alarms if it meant he could get away faster. The only problems were that he didn't want to put Kurt through another panic attack and that the alarms would immediately let James know where he was, only given him the lead he would have by descending stairs. Not the most practical maneuver, and so he just continued to hastily duck out of sight, doing his best not to arouse attention of teachers wherever possible.

It wasn't easy; half of the teachers on this floor were close enough to their doors that they could easily see a student running by, so he was forced to slow if he wanted to remain unnoticed. The last thing he needed was a helpful Samaritan letting James know a shortcut so he could head him off.

He just had to get away. Somehow.

But even as he ran down a mostly empty hallway, Blaine knew that there was no more running away from this. He couldn't just drop everything at McKinley and leave. There would be no simple way to deter James from an explanation owed years ago. He would find out, and he would tell Sadie, and--

Worried that he might panic if he started thinking too deeply about it (he already was panicking), Blaine leapt down a stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. It put him considerably farther ahead of James, and he took advantage of the momentary lapse, bolting up the nearest hall before taking a sharp left.

He almost skidded to a halt. He could go through the chemistry labs (impossible: classes were taking place, and unless he really wanted to raise hell, he had to avoid that) or down to the basement and wait there. James wouldn't know the way around: Blaine could actually lose him. If no one saw Blaine descend, he could avoid James entirely.

But he would have to go back beneath the chemistry lab. He recoiled from the thought.

Seconds. That was all he had before James would be close enough that he would know anyway and that escape would be pointless. Blaine closed his eyes, trying to think past the torrent of emotions sweeping through him.

It was over. He had to give in and face reality. For months he had helped Kurt face up to his tormentors. For days he had helped Karofsky along his own pathway to accepting his sexuality openly.

Now he had to face up to his own advice: he had to stand his ground. There was no where else to run.

So he took a breath, clenched his fists and turned around in time to see James jogging around the corner.

It was not nearly as frightening as a fire, Blaine thought. If he could survive that, he should be okay with James, his friend.

Former friend, he supposed, as James slowed to a walk, surveying him with the same amount of cautious speculation.

"Damn," he breathed at last, running a hand messily through his hair and coming to a stop ten feet away. Blaine appreciated the distance.

"Damn, Blaine," he repeated. "When'd you grow up?"

Blaine blinked. He wasn't expecting that out of James, although perhaps he should have -- James never seemed to fully grasp the seriousness of certain situations unless he was viewing them through the helpful lens of hindsight. "It's been a while," he said tentatively, glad his voice was steady and strong.

James made a vague humming sound, taking a step closer. Blaine reflexively stepped back. With a sheepish grin, James said, "Overstepping?"

"Little bit," Blaine admitted. "How'd you even get here?"

"I was in town," James said with a shrug. "Cousin got married."

"Congratulations." It sounded hollow even to Blaine. He just couldn't think: James was here. Here.

All those days, all those nights -- pointless.

It was a little frustrating; he could have saved himself so much mental anguish if he had just had this conversation years ago. Somehow, his younger self had been convinced he could just avoid it forever.

No, he told that foolish side of him. You can't.

"So where do we go from here?" James asked, his voice finally matching the uncertainty Blaine felt.

Blaine shook his head. "I don't know," he said simply.

James took another step forward. Blaine closed his eyes and didn't step back.

You can't run from this.

Step.

You can't hide forever.

Step.

This is all Sebastian's fault.

Step.

He opened his eyes, and James was right there, barely three feet away, and Blaine could no longer deny it.

James was real, James was here, and he could no longer ignore his existence.

It was strange, how uplifting and burdening the knowledge felt. The guilt of not telling him and spending months anxiously wondering if he had made the right decision virtually evaporated. He had no more reason to worry about those: James was here now, and that mattered more.

The fact that he could no longer run away from that past was still making his heart race.

Blaine didn't know what compelled him to do it, but he stepped forward and hugged James hard enough he could feel his own spine creaking.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

James just gripped the back of his shirt in his usual one-handed hug, seeming just as shell-shocked. I know. I don't forgive you, but I know.

And for the first time since he learned that Ben Israel had spread the word, Blaine was actually tentatively hopeful things might still be reparable.

* * *

Kurt had never felt so alive.

Maybe this was why guys constantly pounded each other and spent their free time tackling their opponents into the dirt. It was exhilarating. He didn't even care if he was wrinkling his outfit or messing up his hair, because he was certain that he had given Sebastian at least a few memorable bruises and that he would be sore tomorrow. It wasn't enough, and it didn't erase the fact that Sebastian had upset Blaine badly enough he had literally fled, but at least it satiated some of the ferocious desire Kurt felt to just smash his teeth in.

Kurt could have strangled Finn for prying him off. They were both smashed up against a pair of lockers, which made the feat impressive in itself: he had to untangle limbs and pull back at the same time. Of course, when you were Finn Hudson, this was fairly simple, since he could probably have pried two mountain gorillas off each other without breaking a sweat. As it was, he almost bodily lifted Kurt in the air, who refused to give in so easily and spent a good minute fighting him. In the end, Finn won, but Kurt was still proud of himself for putting up a decent fight anyway.

"Hey, hey, calm down," Finn was saying. "You're gonna get caught."

Kurt said something unprintable about how he didn't care about getting caught, he just really, really wanted to rearrange Sebastian's face, but Finn wasn't having it and forcefully hauled him back.

"Listen, unless you want to get suspended, you need to calm down," Finn said. "Figgins'll be here any second. Luckily the mess inside's worse, but seriously, dude, calm down."

Kurt snarled at him but grudgingly backed off. Sebastian didn't bother coming after them -- whatever brain cells he had could apparently deduce the simple math that two against one never ended well -- but he glowered at them both, vanishing inside the choir room in seconds.

"What mess?" Kurt asked at last, shaking free of Finn's grasp and moving towards the choir room door. It looked like at least a few Warblers were down and Puck was waving his rapier around impressively.

"What's going on here?" Figgins asked, sounding baffled as he walked brusquely down the hall.

"We just had a friendly debate," Kurt assured.

There was no blood visible, which somewhat assisted his argument, and the Warblers had picked themselves back up at the sight of the principle. Everyone looked ruffled but otherwise normal.

Figgins blinked. "I thought I heard fighting," he said suspiciously.

"Ventilation," Kurt said at once.

Figgins frowned, then shook his head. "I'll have to have that checked out."

"Good idea," Kurt agreed, watching him walk off as the Warblers quickly made their own exit. Kurt stared at them, letting it be known that he was not happy with any of them, especially Nick and Jeff, before turning back to Finn. "Where'd Blaine go?"

Finn shrugged. "I don't know. The new guy went after him, though, so -- oh, crap."

It was funny, how often Kurt ended up running down the halls with Finn. Maybe he should be worried by the pattern -- it always seemed to signal Blaine was in trouble -- but right then, he had a different priority.

* * *

Three hours later, Kurt had heard the whole story, and he really wished Finn hadn't pulled him off Sebastian. He definitely hadn't knocked any of his pretty teeth out, although he might have blackened one of his eyes, and overall he hadn't done nearly enough damage for the magnitude of trouble Sebastian had caused.

He, Blaine, and James were sitting at a table in the school cafeteria, Blaine sitting pointedly close to Kurt, almost touching but not quite. James kept his distance, sitting across from them and looking them both over pensively.

"I can't believe he did that," Kurt said, shaking his head, while Blaine picked at an apple disinterestedly. He was avoiding everyone's gazes, though thankfully most of the other McKinley students had their own drama to capture their interest and were thus generally ignoring Blaine.

This is turning out to be a fabulous Halloween, Kurt thought dryly, watching as James shook his head at something Blaine had asked. They were talking normally, which Kurt thought was a good sign, even if there was still a definite tension between them. He couldn't imagine what it would be like. How Blaine was coping with this all now, he didn't know, but he had silently decided that as soon as they were free from school obligations he was going to give Blaine some well-needed comfort. He had asked him if he wanted to take a half-day -- he was fairly sore himself from his fight with Sebastian, even if he refused to admit it -- but Blaine had stubbornly insisted that he would make it through the whole day.

Looking at Blaine's almost listless expression now, Kurt made an executive decision and overrode Blaine's earlier decision. "Come on," he said. "We don't even have any interesting classes next."

Blaine shrugged a little. "That's no reason to skip," he pointed out.

"We're not skipping," Kurt said seriously. "We're celebrating. It's Halloween."

"Wow," James said, shaking his head. "I can't believe it's Halloween already."

"Come on," Kurt repeated softly to Blaine, who had yet to stop picking at his apple mindlessly. "We are not hanging out at this dull institution any longer."

Blaine set down his apple at last, which Kurt supposed was an improvement, even if his expression remained the same. "Anything in mind?" he asked, not sounding terribly invested either way.

"I'm not telling," Kurt said, dragging him upward. "See you later, James," he added perfunctorily.

James lifted a hand but remained seated, looking around the cafeteria.

Kurt ushered Blaine out before he could change his mind and decide he wanted to stay for the rest of the day, linking their arms as soon as they were in the hallway.

Blaine gave his own a weak tug to try and free it. "Kurt," he warned. "We're in school."

"And it's Halloween, and you're my boyfriend," Kurt added, nodding. Blaine was never the one to shy away from simple things like hand-holding and arm-linking, even if Kurt did more times than he could count. It was strange, having the positions reversed, and a little worrying. Is he really going to be okay? he wondered. Emotionally?

Well, he would just have to find out, and staying at school was definitely not helping anything.

Sebastian is a dead man as soon as we fix this, Kurt vowed silently.

* * *

Kurt half-wished he could drive out to Westerville and pay Sebastian a special visit, but he had more important matters on his hands with Blaine, so he focused on that first. It bothered him just how much of Blaine's past Sebastian had dug up in his endeavor to do -- something. Whatever it was, Kurt didn't know, although the primary motivation no longer seemed purely to make him drop his current boyfriend and become Sebastian's . . . whatever.

Languishing in the opportunity of the rest of the day without school, Kurt made a fresh batch of Halloween cookies to celebrate. Blaine sat down on the couch while he worked, silent, seemingly neither bothered nor affected by Kurt's activity. At last when the batch was in the oven and Kurt was free until the timer went off, he stepped over to where Blaine was and sat down beside him.

Blaine sagged almost visibly, leaning against him more heavily than he usually would.

Rubbing between his shoulders, Kurt asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Blaine shrugged and looked at him liquid brown eyes. It was hard to read that expression more so than most of those in Blaine's repertoire, but Kurt could see the pleading in them fairly plainly. Please distract me.

"Well," Kurt began, "any plans for Halloween?"

* * *

Kurt didn't know how they got from talking absently to carving pumpkins, but they did, with Kurt studiously working on the face of one while Blaine focused on the nit-and-grit aspect of it by pulling out all the pumpkin seeds. Kurt also had no idea how he could stand to stick his hand inside a freezing pumpkin and scoop out its guts without at least a little shudder, but Blaine didn't seem bothered. He even looked grateful to have something to do that had nothing in relation to the Sebastian incident earlier. James had thankfully not bothered either of them, although he had mildly insisted on at least Blaine's phone number before they left, a concession that was reluctantly acceded to.

"I don't know how you can do that," he told Blaine aloud, shaking his head as the latter scooping out more pumpkin innards and dumped them on the old newspapers they'd set up around the driveway.

Blaine grinned. "Practice." He rubbed his hands off briskly on a towel before stuffing them into a pair of Finn's gloves (Kurt point-blank refused to let him ruin a pair of his own with pumpkin extras). "It's freezing, though," he added.

"Welcome to Ohio," Kurt reminded dryly. "Warm less than half the year and absolutely miserable the rest."

"Charming." Blaine smiled as he turned back to the untouched pumpkin.

Kurt shook his head, digging the thin carving knife into his pumpkin's rounded surface. "I don't know how you're so optimistic about it. Whenever I tell Rachel she cries."

"Would you prefer it if I burst into tears?" Blaine asked.

Kurt tapped his chin thoughtfully with his glove-covered hand. "I don't think I've ever seen you burst dramatically into tears," he mused.

"I don't think I've ever done it," Blaine admitted. "Although I cried so hard when Marley died." Kurt tilted his head. "You know. Marley and Me. It was terrible. Wes wouldn't let me live it down for weeks."

"So you're a sucker for tragedies," Kurt mused.

"No," Blaine corrected, "I just can't help it when directors mess with my emotions like that. They killed Marley." He shook his head in deep disgust, casually pulling out a handful of pumpkin guts without the slightest indication that he was bothered.

"So? What gets you?" Blaine prompted.

Kurt frowned, confused. "What gets me what?"

Blaine rolled his eyes as though he was being deliberately slow and stuffed his hands back into Finn's gloves after briskly rubbing them off on the towel. "You know," he said, scooting over so he was sitting directly beside Kurt, their thighs pressed together. "What movie gets to you?"

Kurt thought about it, mulling over various titles, before shrugging and concluding simply, "Bambi."

Blaine laughed, which was both insulting and amusing to watch, since Kurt felt he should be a little more sympathetic to his plight. "What?"

"Bambi. Really, Kurt?"

"They shot his mom," Kurt said stiffly.

"Bambi?"

Kurt rolled his eyes and nudged his shoulder. "You have your tastes, I have mine. If I have classier tastes--"

Blaine just had this grin on his face that Kurt knew meant he wasn't really listening, so he stopped talking. Blaine promptly kissed him -- oh, hello, wasn't expecting that -- but it was over before Kurt could do more than gape blankly at him afterwards. "I love you," he said simply.

Kurt continued to gape stupidly for a couple more seconds before shaking his head. "You smell like pumpkin," he accused.

Blaine blinked, then looked around and almost beamed. "Shall we clean up and head back inside, then?"

The possibility of continuing was too tempting to resist, even though Kurt had only finished one of the pumpkins. It had a jack-o-lantern face on it, neither terribly original or boring, so he set it out on the front porch and the other two on the grass beside it.

As far as Blaine, well -- it was only fair to return the favor once he had dropped off the pumpkin seeds in the trash and was about to step inside, frazzle-haired from the slight breeze and grinning.

And after that, well . . . Kurt had to admit that for a lonely afternoon at home, it was pretty well spent.


	27. Chapter 27

Kurt would have sacrificed tomorrow for this.

In his mind, he knew that he was being silly. But even when Blaine smelled almost overwhelmingly of mid-October and pumpkin, he was still amazing. He remembered to shut the door behind them, something Kurt would have forgotten; he tossed a reflexive glance around to be sure that no one was really around; and he even shrugged out of his half-frozen coat, draping it over the coat-rack thoughtfully, while Kurt's own fingers tugged insistently at his collar. Stop being so gentlemanly, he silently complained. Blaine laughed, lightly slid Kurt's hands off his collar, and framed his face.

"Patience," he breathed, and if Kurt had ever felt less patient, he had no idea when that particular time was.

Fortunately, Blaine understood, for his smile was soft and genuine before he made good on his unspoken promise and pressed closer.

Mmm, Kurt thought inanely. Cinnamon.

Blaine was obsessed with sweet things: coffee-addiction aside, he loved honey and cinnamon, and Kurt found it amusing how often he included them on his food. Right then, he could definitely appreciate unintended side effects, even though the kiss was certainly much more exciting than cinnamon.

Kurt was certain there were words for this. His ability to think rationally had temporarily short-circuited, however, which made it impossible to find them.

By the time he was aware of anything that wasn't simply Blaine, they were lounging lazily on Kurt's bed, Blaine's back against the headboard and Kurt pressed up slightly against him. Breathing deeply to control the sudden urge to absolutely ravish him as he had already done to Kurt -- and how was that impossibly sweet smile still on his lips? Kurt was certain he had forgotten every other expression besides a slightly gape-mouthed look -- Kurt leaned back on his haunches and looked at him. And, well, he could admit a little pride, because there was a definite dazed look to Blaine's eyes that was highly satisfactory.

"We should do that more often," he murmured unthinkingly, then, timing as impeccable as ever, blushed.

Blaine chuckled and closed his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sounds good."

"My dad's going to kill you," Kurt whispered, just to see if his expression would change.

It didn't. His lips did quirk up slightly with an unmistakeable irony.

"That's okay," he said, opening his eyes and looking at Kurt.

Cue melt.

With a staggering effort, Kurt managed to restrain himself from losing himself a little longer. It was clear to him just why people like Finn and Rachel would stay together, even if their personalities were often abrasive: make-out sessions were definitely worth a little personal difficulty.

But this was even better, because this was Blaine, and abrasive and Blaine didn't belong in the same sentence. Blaine was the most compassionate person Kurt had ever met. He would never do anything to deliberately upset or anger Kurt, even if he did so accidentally on occasion (case-in-point: Rachel, Jeremiah . . . Sebastian).

Determined not to follow that line of thought, Kurt leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to the exposed hollow of Blaine's throat before sinking down a little and resting his head on Blaine's chest. His breath gushed out in a satisfied sigh, making Kurt smile. He had a terrible feeling that he looked ridiculous, but if anyone could remain fully coherent and put-together in the wonderful presence of Blaine Anderson, he had yet to meet him.

"Your dad's going to kill me," Blaine reiterated quietly, sounding untroubled.

Kurt rolled his eyes.

Blaine reached around towards his pocket. Kurt trapped his wrist gently and said, "Please don't."

Blaine's hand slid back down to rest in the middle of his back. "Okay."

They rested in silence, reveling in the simplicity, before at last an unmistakable voice came from below. "Kurt? Blaine? You boys home?"

Blaine cleared his throat before answering, which Kurt thought was a wise move, as his voice was still a little rough either way. "Yeah," he called back. He did not add the perfunctory explanation, looking at Kurt with a slightly raised eyebrow, and Kurt sighed to himself as he lifted himself up and quickly slid to the edge of the bed, draping his feet over it. It had been nice while it lasted, at least. He could already feel the chill air of the rest of the October-frosted house creeping over him, Blaine's warmth addictive. He had no idea how Blaine could stand him -- here he was, perpetually cold, it seemed, and there Blaine was, always so wonderfully warm -- but he could, and that mattered more than any other explanation.

Scooting around so that he was in a less conspicuous position, Blaine flashed him a last secretive smile before arranging his face into a more studious one as he picked up one of the textbooks Kurt had left out and opened it to a random page in the middle, sitting with his legs crossed and an intense look on his face. Cupping his chin in his hand and resting the book between his knees, he looked the picture of a student preparing for his final exam. Kurt couldn't help but shake his head a little as he quickly busied himself at his vanity. It was not unfeasible for him to work on his routine this early, especially since it was Halloween and he did anticipate staying up fairly late.

All night, if it means we can keep doing that, Kurt's irrational side chimed in happily.

Kurt shut it out and focused on looking as cool and collected as Blaine. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn he had just walked in on Blaine studying; it was only the way Blaine's gaze flickered to him as he took his seat in front of the vanity that told him he was amused and not really studying. Then his eyes were back on the textbook and it was like Kurt didn't exist.

He inwardly shook his head and decided that if he was going to put on this façade, he might as well get something out of it. So he started on his nightly routine, even if originally he had planned on doing it after the excitement.

His dad knocked on the doorjamb politely (Kurt and Blaine had mutually decided to leave the door open, even if Kurt couldn't remember where that decision had cropped up) before stepping inside the room, looking between the two of them with an expression of dubious interest. "Do I want to know?" he asked, sounding unsurprised.

"We're studying," Kurt said clearly, rolling his eyes as he craned his head over his shoulder (still deliciously warm from where Blaine's head had been resting, he noticed with a pleasant jolt). "Well. Blaine's studying. I'm working." He gestured at his vanity. His dad's gaze flicked over that once before dismissing everything as beyond his league. He stared at Blaine for several long moments, mouth pursed, before shaking his head.

"Just keep it PG, okay?"

"Dad," Kurt said, genuinely exasperated. "We weren't doing anything."

And, okay, that was an outright lie. But they weren't doing anything bad. Not really. People sucked each other's faces off in public, for Gaga's sake. Doing so in the comfort of his own home with his established boyfriend hardly qualified as something scandalous.

His dad held his ground, but he looked somewhat awkward as he put a hand on the doorjamb for support. "You know what I mean, Kurt," he said at last.

"We'll be good," Blaine promised without looking up from his book, his voice calm and steady.

Kurt did his best to mimic it as he echoed, "Dad, we'll be good. Promise."

Rubbing the back of his neck, his dad nodded. "Okay. Dinner's in twenty, just so you know."

Kurt nodded. "We'll be down," he promised.

Looking skeptical but minutely reassured, his dad disappeared back into the hallway, his footsteps quickly leading downstairs.

"That went well," Blaine said, sounding surprised.

"He likes you," Kurt reminded, spreading the moisturizer with practiced hands over his face. "What did you expect?"

"Rage," Blaine deadpanned.

Kurt swiveled around in his chair to look at Blaine, who was still staring unnecessarily at the textbook. "I was kidding."

"I know," Blaine said, in a too-innocent tone.

"Did you really think he would kill you?"

Blaine rolled his eyes, sincere incredulity on his face. It reassured Kurt somewhat that he would at least recognize that much. "No."

"But you still expected an explosion."

Blaine shrugged. "Well, what would you expect?"

"Hopefully, understanding," Kurt said truthfully. He watched the way Blaine's fingers stiffened on the book's pages before continuing. "Yes, he doesn't like the idea that his only biological son finally has a boyfriend. Does any father like it when their kid gets in their first relationship?" When Blaine didn't answer, he capped the moisturizer and walked back over to the bed, sitting down beside him. "I'm not five, Blaine. I don't need him to decide for me the right people to be with. He understands that. He doesn't really like it, but that's part of being a dad: you're not supposed to like it when your kid gets their first relationship. It's in the 'ninety things you're not allowed to do as a father' manual."

He shrugged. Blaine's eyes were still trained on the paper, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

"He likes you," Kurt repeated firmly, nudging his shoulder a little. He wanted Blaine to hear him and, as he had predicted, Blaine's gaze slid over to him a moment later, inquiring with a tinge of uncertainty. At this proximity, Kurt was amazed that he had never noticed that second shade -- usually Blaine looked curious, casually so, but never insecure. It was oddly calming, knowing that Blaine was human and worried about boyfriend-father-approval, too. The issue was deeper than that, of course, but Kurt was encouraged, nonetheless, to finally realize that additional layer. "He wants to keep someone like you around. I suppose he likes that I finally have someone to be with," he admitted, "even if it's more comfortable in theory than in practice." Kurt paused, then added quietly, "He approves of you, Blaine. You don't need to worry about him getting angry just because we finally act like a couple." He smiled a little at the thought, unable to erase the still magnificently fresh memories, so exquisitely short, that occupied his mind.

Blaine was quiet for so long Kurt wondered if he had somehow overstepped. Just as he was about to say that it really wasn't that big of a deal (even though it most definitely was), Blaine leaned his shoulder against Kurt's and said, "You don't want my father's approval."

"I do," Kurt said. Blaine stiffened. Ignoring his immediate instinct to backtrack, Kurt plowed forward. "I want him to recognize that I'm not something he can will away, Blaine. I want him to accept you -- us -- for who we are. I know that's a tall order," he added, while Blaine simply stared at him with dark eyes, unreadable, "but I want it to happen, Blaine. And you should know that I'm very stubborn."

Blaine shook his head a little. "I . . . why does it even matter?" he demanded in sudden exasperation.

Kurt wrapped his arms around his waist and waited until he felt some of the tension dissolve from Blaine's shoulders. "I care about you," he said slowly, letting each word carry its own emphasis. "I want you to know just how much it means to accepted by your parents. I'm not going to give this up, because I care about what happens to you." He gently tugged the book out of Blaine's unresisting fingers and set it down on the floor again.

Staring dumbly at the place where the book had been for several seconds, Blaine shook his head at last. "It's a losing battle," he said, voice suffused with a defeat Kurt wasn't used to hearing in his voice.

"I'm going to stop you right there," he murmured, pushing Blaine back gently until he was lying on his back, looking up at Kurt with an unyielding expression. "Everyone can change," he said, his voice still soft, hovering over Blaine for a moment indecisively before resting his cheek against his collarbone. Blaine's hands instinctively rose to clasp around his back, a slight hesitation questioning whether he was still allowed to do that. Kurt responded by rolling his eyes and settling down comfortably. "Even your parents," Kurt added after an eternity.

Blaine made a small noise of disagreement but seemed incapable of otherwise disrupting the peace with a verbal protest.

"We all love you here," Kurt continued, so softly he knew Blaine couldn't have heard him if he had been any farther away. Again, that protesting noise, quieter this time, almost willing it to be disproved. Kurt was happy to oblige. "We do. Carole adores you, Finn likes having you around, and my dad likes you, too. You're as much a Hummel as I am, Blaine."

Blaine opened his mouth and closed it again without answering. Kurt was silently glad. This close, he could feel Blaine's heart pounding, and whether it was the closeness (which, Kurt had to admit, had taken on a new meaning past simply cuddling after that blissful moment earlier) or the argument, Kurt didn't know. It slowed minutely, steadying to a regular, even beating that was oddly reassuring.

Despite everything that had happened to him and all the trials he had been put through, Blaine was alive. The tangible proof of his existence was more soothing than Kurt would have thought possible, even two hours ago.

"You're part of our family," Kurt said. "I just want you to feel part of yours, too."

Blaine's fingers gripped the back of his shirt tightly, his heart rate stuttering. Kurt waited, unconcerned about the open door or the possibility that his dad would walk in on them like this -- fully clothed, on top of the sheets, and doing nothing sexual whatsoever -- or even that Finn might tromp upstairs and find them. (The latter of which was a thought that had admittedly scarred him before, when he had considered being exactly here in this moment.)

In the end, it was simple. Blaine nodded fractionally and turned his head, pressing his forehead against the side of Kurt's. Kurt didn't move, listening to his breathing, slow and even, almost asleep, before at last reaching up gently to brush his fingers lightly over the back of his neck. "I'm here for you. No matter what."

Blaine didn't say anything, but somehow, Kurt knew his answer.

I know.

* * *

The one thing Blaine had not expected to encounter on Halloween was Dave Karofsky. The former bully was standing at the intersection between two streets looking wary, his expression guarded as he watched trick-or-treaters walk nearby. He had a letterman jacket on, a clear designation of his position, but no additional Halloween gear. Wondering what prompted him to do it, Blaine strode forward, surprisingly fearless in the wake of his conversation with Kurt.

You already knew all that, he chided himself lightly. Even mentally, he couldn't find the desire to be more stern with the words.

Did you? Really?

During the paces it took him to reach Karofsky's standing, Blaine silently decided that no, he hadn't, at least not until Kurt had said it. It was the difference between knowing that he loved Kurt and actuallysaying it: the results were infinitely less burdening. Whereas Blaine had agonized over whether or not Kurt knew just how serious about the whole affair he was during the first tentative weeks of their relationship, he had been relieved to get his feelings out in the open, even if there was that terrifying knowledge that Kurt might not feel the same.

He had, and it had definitely been worth it when all was said and done, and Blaine couldn't deny that it was relief that he felt knowing that the Hudson-Hummels did actually want him around.

It's your home. It's always been. You just haven't let yourself believe it.

Pushing those thoughts aside as he stepped in front of Karofsky, Blaine lifted an eyebrow questioningly. "How did it go?" he asked conversationally.

Karofsky glanced up and down the road, convinced there were eyes where none were present. At last, he let out a ragged sigh, head ducked, and said, "Fine."

Blaine tilted his head a little. "Really?"

Karofsky nodded jerkily. "They were . . . they were okay with it."

"I'm glad." Blaine was surprised how sincerely he meant the words.

Karofsky's eyes narrowed briefly as though he doubted Blaine could possibly be invested in anything that involved him before tossing his head like a frisking horse. "Why am I even talking to you?" he asked in a low voice.

The question was rhetorical, but Blaine answered anyway.

"Maybe it's because I was right?" he prompted. Karofsky glared at him. "If my advice didn't work, you wouldn't have come back."

Folding his arms defensively, Karofsky said, "I didn't come back."

Blaine spread his hands. "This is just an accident, then?"

A snarl curled Karofsky's lips and he jerked forward in an involuntary movement that made Blaine's heart race momentarily before sinking back to his former stance. "Yes," he bit out at last. "I don't even know why I'm still here." He looked around in feigned interest, but the fact that he was still standing was blaring in the silence.

Allowing him a few moments to collect his thoughts, Blaine said quietly, "You're here because you don't know where to go next. You thought they would just reject you -- they didn't. If they had, you could have just gone back to . . . whatever you were doing and ignored the fact that I ever suggested talking to them." He shrugged, accepting it as a possibility, even if he was glad that it had not been so. "You're . . . doing good, Karofsky," he said at last. It cost him an effort, but less than it would have to remain silent.

Karofsky didn't speak for nearly a minute. Then he sighed in an almost embarrassed way, gaze darting to and fro, before demanding in a voice so low it was almost a rumble, "So what next, prep boy? Happily-ever-after?" His nose wrinkled at the thought.

A bark of laughter escaped Blaine before he could censor himself. "That takes a little longer," he admitted. "But it's not impossible."

If anything, Karofsky seemed even more skeptical about the admission. "You don't know what you're talking about," he accused.

Blaine shrugged. "I've been there. I know at least something. It's better than what you'll find elsewhere, but I won't fight you on it. If you want to solve this by yourself, be my guest."

Karofsky stood his ground.

"Very well," Blaine said once it was clear he wouldn't move. "I don't have a neat solution. These things take time. I learned the hard way. Don't be like me."

Karofsky let out a bitter snort. "Oh yes, the perfect prep boy has just had a miserable life."

Blaine narrowly resisted the urge to tell him that he wasn't a perfect prep boy. That was beside the point.

"Either way," he said instead, "you need to decide how you're going to handle this. You could remain completely in the closet for the rest of your life." He shrugged. "That's a possibility. Not one I would recommend. I do think it damages people, to be hidden like that. You could come out to certain people. That's a little better. At least someone other than yourself knows. It relieves the pressure. Or you could let everyone know."

"No way," Karofsky said flatly.

"Don't be close-minded," Blaine warned. "I guarantee you'll be unhappy if you don't consider them all seriously."

Karofsky gripped his upper arms tightly. "So that's your magic advice? Three options?"

"I'm not magic," Blaine pointed out. "I don't have any quick-fix solutions. But if you want to make this truly better . . . you've got to work, Karofsky. There aren't simple solutions to these things."

As though the words had been a trigger of sorts, Karofsky jerked his head in another nod and wheeled around on his heel, stalking off. Blaine watched his retreating back for several long moments before shaking his head to himself. Kurt might not be happy that he was conversing with Karofsky outside of his knowledge, but the matter was so tentative Blaine had no idea if it would even last a month. He surprised himself by realizing that he wanted it to last. He wanted Karofsky to heal. He wanted him to be happier with himself.

Shaking his head slightly to himself, Blaine sauntered off in the opposite direction. He had left to get some fresh air in his normal attire, intent on processing the information Kurt had given him, and bumped into Karofsky instead. Maybe it was pure accident. Maybe it was fate.

Blaine didn't know, but either way, he wouldn't let it fall simply because he was indifferent. If Karofsky was willing to see him, then he was willing to at least make some compromises on the matter. Even if his own conscience scoffed at the thought of helping the same person that had driven Kurt out of his school, Blaine couldn't help himself. Karofsky was someone that he never thought he would be helping, and yet . . . .

Smiling a little to himself, satisfied that he had done good somehow, Blaine pushed the door to the Hudson-Hummel residence open carefully. He could hear Burt listening to a game in the living room, Finn with a group of the guys below, and Carole in the kitchen working on some dessert or another. Kurt bounded downstairs as soon as he appeared, a slight smile on his face.

"Ready?" he asked, tugging one of his sai swords out of his impromptu belt and casually giving it a spin. Blaine stared, momentarily dazed, before shaking his head.

"Do I look ready?" he rebutted.

Kurt glanced him over once critically before shaking his head and stepping over, planting his hands firmly in the middle of Blaine's back and nudging him forward. "Come on. We don't have all night."

Blaine shook his head and let himself be ushered along. Best not to argue with Kurt on certain matters, he mused.

* * *

In the end, Halloween itself was a simple event. The trick-or-treaters came to the Hudson-Hummels at two minute intervals demanding candy, which Blaine and Kurt supplied from the porch. They had found some comfortable chairs from the basement and had Finn bring them up before setting up Kurt's iPod and letting the music roll over them. It was soothing to listen to, and the sole carved jack-o-lantern sat pleasantly near their feet, its lit smile brightening the ground in front of it. No one looked twice at the fact that they were both guys sitting close to each other -- clearly, the kids were too young and the chaperones too interested in the kids to care -- but it was nice, being able to do something so normal without any sort of reprimand. Blaine smiled to himself, enjoying the general atmosphere.

"Why do you look so happy?" Kurt asked, musingly sorting through the leftover candy.

Blaine shook his head. "Am I no longer allowed to look happy?" he asked innocently.

Kurt rolled his eyes and delicately picked out an empty wrapper, setting it aside. "You know what I mean."

Blaine paused, genuinely considering his comment, before shrugging a little. "I guess it's just nice to have a quiet Halloween for once."

Kurt turned slightly to look at him incredulously. "Quiet?" he repeated. "Do you not remember this morning?"

Blaine shrugged uncomfortably. "Can we not bring that up now? I'm still in a good mood, but I don't think it'll last if we start talking about . . . that."

For a moment, Blaine thought Kurt might continue talking about it anyway before he shook his head slightly. "All right. What else do you want to talk about?" he asked, grinning.

Blaine tapped his chin in mock-consideration. "NYADA?"

Kurt's nose wrinkled. "Next."

"Class presidency?" Blaine tried.

Kurt shook his head. "I've thought about that enough. At this point . . . 'come what may.'" He shrugged. "I mean, yeah, I want to win, but right now. . . ." He looked pointedly at Blaine. "Can't we just talk about something else?"

"Like what?" Blaine asked, curious.

"Like . . . happy stuff."

"Happy stuff," Blaine repeated, amused.

Kurt reached over and nudged his shoulder.

"Fine," Blaine conceded, grinning as he fended off another shove. "Happy stuff. How about how amazing you look in that outfit?"

Kurt flushed a little, which was most definitely satisfying. (And adorable, Blaine had to admit.) "I try," he said in mock-innocence.

"Trying is for the rest of us mortals, not Kurt Hummel."

Feigning modesty, Kurt couldn't hide the grin that crossed his face a moment later. "I'm just glad I finally got to include these," he said, flicking both sai swords to his hands at once. Blaine barely restrianed himself from leaping away in surprise. It was easier, now that he had seen it before, but it still came as a surprise when Kurt went from normal Kurt to sword-wielding Kurt. Sai swords, but still swords.

"Staring is rude," Kurt pointed out in a holier-than-thou tone.

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"I can't believe we have school tomorrow," Kurt continued, shaking his head sadly. "You would think that they would automatically cancel for Halloween."

"It's not like we're the ones out 'late' trick-or-treating," Blaine reminded.

"No, but we still stay up late and deserve a holiday," Kurt said.

"Staying up late? You? Unheard of." Blaine waved a hand dismissively.

Kurt huffed. "Just because I like mornings doesn't mean I'm completely a child, Blaine."

"I never accused you of being a child," Blaine pointed out, grinning at a few latecomers as they stepped up the sidewalk to the porch. "Hey, guys."

"Trick-or-treat," the group chorused obediently.

Kurt distributed the candy, casting Blaine a mock-betrayed look before leaning back in his chair.

"Okay, don't tell me you're actually mad about this," Blaine said, unable to muffle a chuckle.

Kurt rolled his eyes and looked skyward. "Just because you're a night owl doesn't mean I can't stay up late."

"You'll be out by one," Blaine said confidently.

Kurt scowled. "Is that a challenge?"

Grinning, Blaine said innocently, "Only if you want it to be," knowing that it already was.

* * *

It was no surprise, therefore, that at midnight both were still awake, despite Kurt's usual preference to drop-off at around eleven or so. Blaine looked completely at ease, typing away on his laptop and pausing occasionally to read what he had written. Kurt wondered how he didn't have horrid eyestrain -- his gaze never strayed from the screen, yet he seemed perfectly comfortable with the arrangement -- but he devoted his attention to his own book instead. It was hard with Blaine in the same room (strict orders of Burt not to violate the three-feet rule: hence the air mattress set up on the floor) to focus on anything. All Kurt wanted to do was have a repeat of earlier, even if Blaine didn't seem interested.

He liked it, he knew. Which only made it more frustrating that Blaine was still acting as though nothing had happened.

"How can you even read that?" he demanded at last, his voice quiet so he wouldn't wake up anyone else.

Blaine glanced up at him briefly and flashed him a quick smile before looking down again. "Lots of practice," he murmured, gaze darting across the screen.

Shaking his head at the general ridiculousness of his boyfriend, Kurt did his best to focus. An hour passed -- Kurt was proud that he didn't even feel drowsy by one, contrary to Blaine's earlier claim -- but by two he had to admit he was definitely lagging in the energy department. Blaine was reading the screen with his chin cupped in the palm of one hand, still looking altogether too at ease.

"Not even a little tired, are you?" Kurt said, sitting down directly beside him and resting his chin on his shoulder to read the screen. The words blurred before him, useless, and he gave up on reading them after a moment's thought.

He felt more than heard Blaine chuckle. "Are you?" he asked, rubbing Kurt's side, which was completely unfair. How was Kurt supposed to properly resist the desire to sleep when his hand was so warm and gentle?

Stop it, he urged, wanting to push it away. His hands didn't respond; he liked it too much.

With a gusty sigh, Kurt leaned against him a little more, reveling. "Why haven't we done this more often?" he asked quietly.

Blaine shrugged a little, the movement jostling Kurt. "We're indecisive?" he asked almost teasingly.

"Be serious," Kurt chided.

Blaine's expression instantly became more serious. "I am," he said simply.

A long time passed in silence, Kurt vaguely aware of Blaine still reading and occasionally typing on his laptop, even if he had long since stopped watching him. It was nice, just being this close to Blaine without any sort of urgency. Wondering if it could stay this impossibly sweet forever, Kurt made a thin noise of protest when the lights flicked off. How was he supposed to concentrate now? He had to prove Blaine wrong. He had to.

Do I even really want to?

No, Kurt admitted, too tired to wake up properly and move from where he was leaning against Blaine. He could almost hear Blaine's unvoiced laugh as he gently rearranged Kurt on the bed, Kurt's face pressed a cool pillow moments later.

He made a disgruntled noise. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as Blaine's shoulder. Blaine seemed to know that -- he let out another soft chuckle that was only just audible -- and wrapped an arm around Kurt, lightly tugging him closer. Kurt complied, contentedly resting his face back against that warm, solid shoulder. Much better than a stupid pillow, he decided.

"Good night," Blaine whispered.

Kurt hummed in response, too tired to form the words.

Good night, Blaine.


	28. Chapter 28

Blaine had difficulty believing that he had actually woken before Kurt the next morning. It was not completely unheard of -- once, accidentally, Blaine had awoken in the middle of the night, which definitely counted as 'before Kurt' even if technically he wasn't truly awake then -- but it was certainly not a common occurrence. He laid in the pleasant warmth created by their small tangled cocoon before grudgingly peeling himself away from Kurt. He knew that, despite Kurt's sincerity that he was a Hudson-Hummel, Burt would probably not appreciate a blunt violation of the three-feet rule, especially so soon after he had nearly caught them making out.

Making out.

Smiling to himself, Blaine leaned forward and stole a quick kiss before reluctantly scooting back. It was difficult with Kurt's arm wrapped around his waist -- he kept insisting on tightening his grip every time Blaine made a subtle move away. "Kurt," he said at last, in a soft, amused voice, rubbing against the light trail of hair speckling his arm. As predicted, Kurt scrunched up his nose a little -- please do not kill me with how adorable you are -- and opened his eyes.

Oh. Hello, sleepy Kurt.

"Hi," he said stupidly.

"Hi," Kurt said, his voice much gruffer than Blaine had ever heard him. He wanted to laugh, but he knew that Kurt would interpret it the wrong way -- truly, he just wanted to languish in this moment -- and so he restrained himself.

"We need to get up," Blaine added helpfully. "Or, at least, I do."

"Why?" Kurt mumbled, closing his eyes and planting his face in his pillow.

Blaine chuckled, unable to help himself. "Don't suffocate," he warned.

"I won't," Kurt muttered back, voice muffled by the pillow.

Blaine waited a full minute, but Kurt's back continued to rise and fall steadily, despite his precarious position. "How do you do that?" he asked, curious.

Kurt whined. "Sleeping. Go back to bed."

Not bothering to correct him, Blaine shuffled carefully away, prying Kurt's arm off and ignoring his soft sigh of protest. "Jerk," Kurt muttered succinctly.

"You'll thank me later," Blaine assured. He threw a quick glance at the clock -- five o'clock. Too early to officially call it a morning, but also too late to flop down on the air mattress and snooze. Blaine compromised by padding out of the bedroom, still in the pajamas he had worn last night, and climbing silently downstairs. He dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keys even while his mind turned over the possibility.

Do you really want to do this now? a small, serious voice asked.

He listened to the silence around him, the comforting quiet that was the Hudson-Hummel home.

I don't know, he told the voice, slipping on his jacket over top his shirt and wandering out into the backyard. It was chilly, but not frigid enough that he couldn't stand it, so he took a breath, dialed the number, and pressed it against his ear.

If you're going to mentor Dave Karofsky about these things, he told himself, while the rings seemed to drag on long and ominous in the quiet, you need to do them, too.

* * *

At last, his father's crisp, business-like tone: "Hello, Blaine."

Brian was a more reasonable person in the morning. He did almost everything important before noon, including business meetings and extensive essays that his work as a lawyer entailed. Whereas in the afternoon he became a sullen, bothered creature overtaxed by his work, between the most nocturne hours of the night and the breaking daylight of noon, he was a different man. He spoke more calmly and listened more attentively, and his patience seemed twice that of his dusk endurance. Blaine usually didn't meet interact with his father in the morning, however, given their perpetually differing schedules, so it was a rarity to speak to him now.

He was amazed at just how much he had to say, especially on the topic of their current living arrangements. Although clearly troubled that his son was essentially living with his boyfriend's family, he did not make any immediate demands for Blaine's return to Westerville. Involuntarily, Blaine relaxed. One of his greatest fears had been that his parents would demand his return, regardless of his feelings on the matter, and while the indifference hurt he didn't want things to become aggressive between the two families. The Hudson-Hummels could ignore the Andersons just as well as the latter could ignore the former, but if lines were drawn and stakes decided, Blaine was certain that the Hudson-Hummels would not sit passively by.

He listened to his father talk about his business with cordial attentiveness, absently wondering if the man ever realized just how much of his conversation was self-centered. Abruptly, Brian seemed to catch himself mid-lecture, stating that he had had 'enough of that' and pleading an explanation from Blaine about how his life was going.

It was such a surprising turn on things -- his father avoided discussing personal issues with him like the plague -- that at first Blaine couldn't speak.

"Are you still there?" Brian's familiar tones asked from the other end.

Blaine nodded. "Yeah," he said aloud. "I'm still here. There's just . . . a lot to say."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, now, that seemed to stretch for a long time. "Maybe we could meet face-to-face some time," his father said at last. "I feel like it's been ages since we last just . . . talked."

"Yeah," Blaine repeated. "It's been a while."

Another pause. "Saturday at eight, Cornerstone?"

Cornerstone was the Westerville equivalent of the Lima Bean, a small, sophisticated place that everyone in town had been to at least once, often times more. It was unusual to see Brian Anderson there, however, if only because he usually detested interacting with the public more than he could avoid.

"Sure thing," Blaine said at last, mentally wondering if he would have to schedule every face-to-face meeting with his father from now on. "See you then?"

"See you then," his father agreed. "Goodbye, Blaine."

"Bye," Blaine said, leaving off titles as he hit the end key. He didn't know what to say to his father -- Dad was too personal, Father stilted and Brian outright rude.

Who knows, Blaine mused, as he pocketed his phone and stepped back inside, maybe he'd prefer Brian. It would certainly fit with the business tone.

* * *

"You're freezing," Kurt griped, sitting at the kitchen table and quickly retracting the hand he had extended to hold Blaine's with.

Blaine smiled at him -- it was clear he was not fully awake yet, even though he had handled the basics of getting ready -- before pressing a cliché morning kiss to his cheek.

"Good morning to you too," he said, while Kurt swatted at him to prevent him from taking his coffee. "Ready to go?"

"This is all your fault," Kurt complained, head all but dipping to rest on top of his coffee. "If you hadn't said--" He clamped his mouth shut as Finn ambled, half-alert as usual, into the kitchen, rummaging around until he found the cereal and pouring half into a basin-sized bowl.

"Hi," he grunted.

"Morning, Finn," Blaine said, grinning at Kurt, knowing the we should stay up late that would have invariably followed. "I'm just going to get ready," he added innocently, leaving the two stepbrothers to sort it out as Finn tossed Kurt a quizzical look before groaning loudly.

The enlightenment was a sudden, audible experience as Finn nearly dropped his cereal on the floor, covering his eyes. "Oh God, I don't want to know--"

"We didn't do anything!" Kurt squawked indignantly.

"What's up?" Burt demanded, stepping into the kitchen.

"Finn's being entirely inappropriate--"

"I'm being inappropriate?" Finn retorted.

"Yes, you are," Kurt said empathetically.

Leaving them to it, Blaine disappeared up the stairwell. Better to let Hudson-Hummels settle certain matters on their own.

* * *

"And your next senior class president for the 2011-2012 school year is . . . Kurt Hummel!"

The caffeine from the coffee had finally kicked in, and so Kurt was able to fully appreciate the beauty of the announcement. For once, he was overwhelmingly, exceedingly pleased that Figgins had announced his name. The last time he had tagged it on to any award had been the mortifying results for Prom Queen, a moment that Kurt would have traded several years of his life in order to erase permanently. Walking with a new bounce to his step and a small, beaming smile on his face, he hunted down his boyfriend with a practiced eye. "Hey," he said, rocking back on his heels as he grinned. "Guess what?"

Blaine feigned thinking as he shut his locker and turned to look at him. "You made a new outfit?" he guessed, purposefully missing the point.

Kurt rolled his eyes and beamed. "No," he said slowly, practically bouncing in place. "I'm senior class president!"

For three seconds, it seemed like Blaine would simply stand there quietly admiring him. Then he all but tackled Kurt in a hug, ignoring the passerby around them. "I am so proud of you," he whispered in his ear, giving him a hard squeeze before backing off.

Then Marcus all but lifted Kurt off his feet in a rib-cracking hug as he said, "Congratulations, Kurt!"

"Thanks, Marcus!" Kurt said, breathless and worried that several of his ribs were misaligned as the bear-of-a-man backed away. "I mean, I know there were only three candidates," he added modestly.

"Stop right there," Blaine said, holding up a hand. "You are not downsizing how awesome this is. I refuse to let you," he added in a mock-haughty tone.

Kurt lifted both eyebrows.

"Andy's right," Marcus rumbled. "This is pretty damn awes--"

"Kurt Hummel!" a familiar nasally voice called out. "What is your opinion--"

"I'll take care of this," Marcus said, and angered bull versus helpless fence post would have been an apropos heading for the scene that ensued next. It probably would have made an excellent cover story, Kurt mused, if Marcus hadn't bowled over the cameraman as well.

* * *

"I can't believe this happened," Rachel said in a deadened voice.

Kurt was doing his best not to make eye contact with her, even though his inner diva desperately wanted to have a fanboy moment and tell her all about how excited he was about this. Brittany seemed only mildly disappointed, her pink unicorn in hand while she explained some abstract concept to Blaine. Kurt had no idea what she was saying and little intention of finding out. Blaine, bless him, was actually being attentive, although Kurt could tell by the confused furrow to his brow that he didn't understand ninety percent of it.

That's okay, he thought, beaming, hands clasped tightly together so he wouldn't burst into cheers, you don't need to understand Brittany to get along with her.

"Well, guys," Mr. Schue said, stepping into the room and smiling at them all. "One week until sectionals!"

"Congrats on the presidency!" Mercedes whispered to Kurt as she hurried to her seat. Marcus made a disgruntled noise and stood up, quite conspicuously, before tromping over to claim the seat beside her. No one contested his decision, even if Mr. Schue was mid-lecture when he moved. Mr. Schue simply clasped his hands and kept talking, unperturbed by the activity.

"I can't believe you won! This is so amazing," Mercedes continued, beaming. "It's nice having a true diva in office for once."

"You can't believe it?" Kurt whispered back in a mock-offended tone.

"Well, I could," Mercedes amended, rolling her eyes, "but this way's more fun, anyway. Not knowing and everything." She beamed, if possible, even brighter. "Gosh, Kurt, this is a-maz-ing. We're totally going to take this school by storm."

"Viva la revolucion," Kurt said, grinning.

"Okay?" Mr. Schue said, clearly wrapping up his lecture as he looked at them all expectantly. "Let's get started! Guys on the left, girls on the right -- Marcus, you can pick either one, since you'll be up in the stands with me."

Marcus tromped over obediently to the girls' side to stand with Mercedes.

For once, Kurt didn't mind flouncing over to the boys' end, even if it meant that he was still paired with the usual motley crew of Artie, Puck, Finn, and Mike. Having Blaine made all the difference, and Kurt was fine with whatever Mr. Schue told them to do as long as that portion of the arrangement stayed the same. Blaine grinned at him, unable to listen, either, and mouthed, 'Focus!'

"Hypocrite," Kurt muttered back.

* * *

Some of Kurt's good mood disappeared as they mixed songs for a group sing-off against the girls' team. At first, everything seemed to be going well -- Artie quickly handled the technical aspect while Finn and Puck debated songs -- until Kurt noticed Blaine looking a little uneasily around the auditorium. He had his hands in his pockets, a casual gesture that could just as easily have belied disinterest (even though Kurt knew it wasn't, not with the almost-worried look on his face). At last, once everything had been sorted out and they were ready for the impromptu jam, Blaine stepped out.

He was so subtle about it that even Kurt almost missed it, one moment there, the next gone. Mr. Schue obligingly fired up the sound for them and the guys tumbled out onto the stage. Kurt spent one second hovering between the two settings before carefully ducking behind the curtain towards the door. No one seemed to notice his disappearance either, he thought wryly, although he was sure someone would once they stopped howling their hearts out.

Wherever Blaine had gone, he had covered ground quickly, for he was nowhere in the fairly sizeable line of sight Kurt had in either direction. Going with instinct and walking ahead, he ambled slowly, searching, at last finding him in one of the empty woodshop rooms.

"Hey," he said by means of greeting.

Blaine started and jerked around before relaxing. "Oh, hey, Kurt." Then, frowning: "Why aren't you with the guys?"

"I was just about to ask you that," Kurt said, stepping forward but leaving a good five feet between them. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . ." Blaine ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he said bluntly. "I guess I just kind of freaked out a bit," he admitted, shaking his head.

"Everyone does," Kurt said, stepping forward until only three feet separated them. Blaine frowned a little in confusion. "You don't have to just get up there and act perfect, Blaine. And I know you're worried. I am, too. But I also think that if we try. . . ." He trailed off, waiting.

Blaine seemed to hesitate on the verge of something -- agreement or disagreement, it was impossible to know.

"We can try in private," Kurt added helpfully. "Test things out on our own time -- I'm sure Mr. Schue would let us check it out. That way you don't have to figure it out all at once."

Blaine looked relieved as he nodded, stepping forward the last few paces and smiling at him. "Sounds good," he said simply.

* * *

Blaine paused, sitting on the edge of one of Dalton's fine leather couches, before asking, "Why did you do it?"

"We had no idea he would do that," Nick said at once.

"Agreed," Jeff said, sounding desperately eager to disprove his involvement.

Blaine leveled a flat look at them and waited. On rare occasions, he was forced to be serious addressing the Warblers (usually he left seriousness to Wes and David and stayed laid back, the levelheaded presence to balance out the councilors' occasional over-boarding). Not his favorite hobby, he nevertheless recognized that he had to do it now if he wanted to keep his relations with Jeff and Nick on good ground. He had been disappointed -- and later, horrified -- that Jeff and Nick would be present for any scheme of Sebastian's, oblivious to it or not. They were councilors. The fact that they had neglected to keep tabs on the situation was a fault on their end, not his. They had scraped the tip of the iceberg by calling him (four times) over the past three hours trying to make amends. After cruelly considering letting them fret a little more, Blaine finally answered on the fourth call and arranged to meet at seven in Westerville.

They were in the Warblers' hall, its towering walls seeming more ominous than usual in the face of an oncoming storm. Blaine grimaced inwardly as he cast the expansive window another look. It spanned the entire left wall, interspersed with wall at periodic interval, a panoramic view of the monster outside. It had been clear skies when Blaine drove out (Kurt had generously let him use his Navigator, since his own Jeep was still back with his parents), but now it was clear that the pessimistic weathermen had not been entirely false. A low rumble of thunder issued from some far off corner, making both Jeff and Nick jump slightly from their respective perches on the opposite couch cushion and arm.

"We're really sorry," Jeff said in a small voice.

"Really sorry," Nick added empathetically.

Blaine lifted an eyebrow. Jeff looked despairing.

"We didn't know he would do that," he burst out, a sudden flood of emotion that Blaine waited out calmly. "We thought . . . I don't know, he just seemed so sincere, I had no idea--"

"We had no idea," Nick broke in.

"We had no idea he was going to do that," Jeff finished. "We wouldn't have stood for it, if we knew."

Blaine allowed the silence to simmer between them, another low roll of thunder echoing outside. "But see," he said softly at last, in his most diplomatic tone, as he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. It was his most earnest stance and, almost without realizing it, both Jeff and Nick leaned forward a little as well. Blaine hid a smile. He could be charismatic when he needed to be, understanding when the situation required it. Now he needed a delicate balance of stern and forgiving. His voice was steady and blunt as he finished, "Youdid know. Both of you." He intercepted the open mouths with a swift hand gesture. Both instantly closed their mouths, looking remorseful.

"You two are council members. That's not just a seat behind the table." He gestured towards the table, cold and untouched in the absence of the rest of the Warblers. Seeing it so empty made Blaine's heart ache a little: he could remember all too clearly the days when walking into the Warblers' hall always brought to mind David's or Wes' presence. Even when neither councilor was directly present (which, truthfully, they usually were), there was a feeling of authority and dignity that required only a quick look to know that there was someone with a plan ready to go.

"You have to act responsibly," he went on. "Going to a rival school and staging a fight is not acting responsibly. You could be disqualified from competitions for that, and you're lucky that the New Directions chose not to press an official complaint against that."

Largely because the New Directions could be held equally responsible for attacking a rival glee club, granted, but Jeff and Nick didn't need to know that.

"Now," Blaine said, clasping his hands together as another growl of thunder came from without. "Tell me -- honestly -- what happened. I'm not going to bite your heads off."

Jeff and Nick exchanged a look, their uniforms twin shields against Blaine's words. An uncountable period of time passed in silence. Blaine didn't speak, letting them think it through, before at last Jeff sighed.

It was Nick who spoke.

"Well," he hedged, "we didn't know who James was."

"He left that part out," Jeff added. Blaine let his gaze slide over to him, calculating. Jeff seemed to shrink momentarily before steeling himself and sitting up straighter than before. "He just said it would be . . . " he made a helpless gesture, searching for wards. "Productive," he decided at last, "to 'clear the air.'" With a disgusted noise, he said, "I had no idea he would take it that far."

"We had no idea," Nick corrected quietly.

Blaine tilted his head at them. Jeff seized the invitation.

"You're still a Warbler," he blurted.

Blaine lifted his eyebrows faintly in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that.

"You are," Jeff continued heatedly, before Blaine could even fully process the words. "It doesn't . . . it doesn't make a difference to us that you were a transfer, or that you -- that that happened -- any of it. You're still a Warbler to us. All of us. And we've got your back." Shame-faced, he shook his head. "We should have had your back," he amended. "We were wrong to give in like that. We didn't know what Sebastian would do. We didn't know it would be that bad. We're sorry, Blaine. If that were me. . . ." He trailed off, unable to finish.

"You would have been shocked?" Blaine filled in dryly.

Jeff nodded.

Sighing, Blaine regarded Nick, who sat in apologetic silence, meeting his gaze with a fiercely remorse one. I'm so, so, so sorry, he seemed to say.

Rubbing his forehead, Blaine barely held himself in check as another loud crackle of thunder came from outside. He almost commented on it, eager for any way to distract himself from this conversation, before steeling himself.

You have to take a risk. If they're still your friends, you have to give them the chance.

"I'll forgive you this once," he said at last, his voice just as soft as before. "But if you do it again. . . ." He let the words trail off meaningfully.

Jeff and Nick nodded.

"We won't," they said in unison.

Although inwardly he wished he could have more tangible proof that they wouldn't, Blaine nodded back.

* * *

"Wes, your mother's the sweetest woman I know," Blaine said, rolling his eyes as the latter stepped delicately into the kitchen, one arm brandishing a binder.

"Shh!" he hissed urgently.

Too late. "Wesley!" Mrs. Montgomery cooed, wrapping him up in a hug. "There you are, you silly boy!"

Barely stifling snickers, Blaine grinned at the two of them while Wes' younger brother, Bailey, pranced into the kitchen from the opposite side. "Mommy," he began, one hand gripping a coloring book as he toddled into the wood-washed room. He paused at the threshold and looked at the three of them before decisively launching herself at Blaine. "Up!" he insisted.

"Whoa, tiger," Blaine said, getting a better grip under the three year old's arms before hoisting him up. "How's it going?"

"Bluebird," Bailey said smartly, pointing to the red bird he had colored in his book.

Blaine tilted his head critically at the drawing, watching out of the corner of his eye as Wes and his mom wandered around the kitchen arguing conversationally. Shaking his head a little, Blaine pointed out, "I thought bluebirds were blue."

Bailey shook his head. "Not -- not this one," he said seriously.

Grinning slightly, Blaine said, "So bluebirds are red?"

Bailey nodded. "Red bluebird."

Wondering how Bailey and Wes were related -- Wes, always correct, and Bailey, rarely less so -- Blaine followed Wes into the living room, setting down Bailey as he sat down beside Wes.

Fast-forward.

Blaine blinked.

"Oh, crap," he said, knowing he was late for David's party. He had promised to go as a distraction (it was the time when all of David's many relatives got together and talked, an activity that David took no pleasure in), but it was already twenty minutes after time. Jogging down the lamp-lit sidewalk, Blaine hurried the final paces and was at the door to the Hughes' home almost before he realized it.

David had a big dad who reminded Blaine of a mountain lion, all long, broad muscle. He opened the door and pointed Blaine towards the stairwell -- David was upstairs, doubtless revising the setlist for the latest Warblers' routine and -- pause.

Who was that in the corner?

Blaine listened to the vacant echoes of laughter, slowly trailing forward, intrigued by the dark figure. It reminded him a bit of those Sherlock Holmes types that hung around in dark corners until their quarries neared. Feeling vaguely as though he was stepping into a lions' den, Blaine felt the warm atmosphere of David's family infested home disintegrate around him.

"Luke?" he whispered, disbelieving, taking in the broken face. "What happened?"

"Oh God, oh God, make it stop," Luke moaned, clutching at his face. Blaine stepped forward, hands reaching, and felt shackles clamp down on them.

"No," he said, the laughs of David's family reemerging, an eerie reminder of the rest of the world's obliviousness to his problems. "No!"

Luke dissolved into the shadows with a wordless cry.

Blaine awoke with a start.

He was panting, he realized, almost gasping air. Disoriented, he glanced around, the darkness making it impossible to make out his surroundings. It didn't smell like home -- the warm, familiar scent of the Hudson-Hummels' abode absent -- and that disconcerted him. Surely he should haven been back there by now, have been--

Luke. He had to find Luke. That was his priority. Above all else, against all other needs, he had to -- had to--

"Hey," a low, soothing voice said. Blaine gravitated towards it instinctively, trusting the hands that tugged him closer. "It's okay. Just relax."

He let out a deep shuddery sigh and collapsed against the figure, more grateful than words could convey. Right then, he needed solidarity more than he needed air, and he was glad that Wes -- or David -- or whoever it was was there.

It can't be Wes or David, his sleep-fogged mind protested. They're gone.

His instinct to be concerned had completely fled in the face of his terror about Luke. "Luke -- he--" He tried to sit up. Careful hands kept him loosely caged.

"He's fine," the voice said, in a familiar, almost mocking manner.

Breathing a little easier, Blaine sank back down against him.

A long time seemed to pass, with only the broken crackle of thundering interrupting the silence, until at last Blaine felt his heart rate calming and rationality returning. Maybe this wasn't the Hudson-Hummel place, but Kurt was the only one who could possibly stay this long without stirring a fuss. Pleased and sluggish once more, Blaine shifted until his face was pressed against Kurt's collarbone. "Thanks," he mumbled.

An airy laugh answered him, soft and secretive. "Of course."

It didn't occur to him that Kurt couldn't possibly be in Westerville without his Navigator, just as Blaine couldn't be in Lima without having made the drive back before the storm fully broke and forced him to hunker down for a few hours to see if it would abate.

He was safe right here. Forehead pressed against the soft fabric of a t-shirt, his left ear pressed against a steady heart beat, he barely noticed the next rumble of thunder.

"Oh, you amusing fool," the voice said softly, musingly.

Blaine didn't think it was a term of endearment, but he wasn't overly bothered by it. Everything else was comforting, soothing, putting his high-strung conscience at ease.

Maybe it is a term of endearment now, he mused, sinking back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Blaine awoke a second time alone and with a horrible crick in his neck from where he had been sprawled on one of Dalton's couches. A steady deluge of rain continued to patter against the windowpanes rhythmically, creating a distracting tattoo that prevented him from simply drifting back off to sleep. Sitting up groggily, he did his best to acquaint himself with his surroundings, even if his mind insisted only on sleep.

It looked like the Warblers' hall. Had he really stayed here all night?

Apparently, he mused, gingerly pulling himself to his feet. The rain was still heavy, and there were still distant rumbles of thunder and occasional flashes of lightning. Overall, however, it seemed to be dying off, losing momentum.

I need to get back to Lima, he recalled with a sudden leap of enlightenment, swaying almost drunkenly on his feet, grogginess making him sloppy. He staggered across the room and past the doors, weaving as he walked.

"Oh, you're persistent," the same voice from before said. Blaine swung around belatedly to confront it, solid arms wrapping around his waist. "Don't leave," the voice purred. "It's late. It's stormy. You'd probably crash."

That's true, Blaine silently admitted, even while he shook his head and tried to pull free.

"Lemme go," he yawned.

The voice didn't speak, however, the arms slowly guiding him back to the couch. He grunted in protest -- it was still cold and uncomfortable -- before the person sat down and he slouched against him.

Warm. Much better.

Wrapping one hand contentedly in the sheet underneath his cheek, Blaine sighed. Maybe he could stay here a little longer . . . clearly, with the voice, there was nothing really wrong about it. . . . There couldn't be. And it was a nasty storm, and Blaine probably would crash and that would be bad.

Humming slightly, Blaine let sleep consume him once more.

* * *

The third time Blaine awoke, the storm was over.

Everything outside was damp and dark, with only the occasional smattering of rain running down the windowpane. Rubbing the back of his neck gingerly, Blaine climbed to his feet and walked down the hall, bemused.

What happened last night? he wondered. He vaguely remembered talking with Jeff and Nick for a time, debating the merits of staying or leaving before at last assuring that he would wait out the worst and then head home, until he had simply lost track of everything and drifted off.

He ignored the temptation of breakfast and staggered to Kurt's Navigator, following the familiar route to the Hudson-Hummel house, absentmindedly musing.

It wasn't until he was two-thirds of the way there that he remembered he had school today, which would mean he was going to be exceptionally late.

Three-quarters of the way, he realized that there was no way the person who had all but cuddled with him last night was Kurt.

Determinedly pushing aside the disconcerting feeling that that brought, he focused on driving, eventually pulling into the McKinley parking lot just after eleven o'clock.

Better late than never, he mused, stepping inside.

* * *

Kurt cast him questioning looks throughout glee club, whispering questions whenever he could even though Blaine was still trying to process everything for himself. He hated to think about it, especially since he knew what the most likely possibility was, but he couldn't avoid it forever. He had to face the facts sometime, and withholding them from Kurt wasn't doing anything for either of their nerves.

"What happened?" Kurt asked bluntly. "I thought you were coming home?"

"The storm," Blaine murmured noncommittally.

It was clear that Kurt was not fooled, and while Blaine felt bad for not disclosing the side information that he had cuddled with some random guy -- who, unfortunately, was probably not nearly as random as statistics would lead -- he couldn't bring himself to tell Kurt about it.

I did not cuddle with Sebastian, he thought firmly. No.

But even while he adamantly denied it, he knew that his logical had a point in saying, Of course you did. Who else would it have been?


	29. Chapter 29

Blaine could clearly remember the last time he stepped through the glass-paned doors that marked the Cornerstone. Wes had been dealing with 'girlfriend issues' and Blaine, while sympathetic, had decided that after three days of self-imposed solitary confinement in his dorm room, Wes needed to put his act back together. So he had forcibly dragged him away from the morose comfort of his one-person dorm and not taken 'I don't want to go' for an answer. With the threat of appearing publicly childish if he resisted, Wes had grudgingly followed him around for the day while he did casual errands. He deliberately went out and bought the fancy calculator his trigonometry teacher insisted on two or three days before just so Wes would have an excuse to correct him about the finer points of TI-87s and why anything less than graphing was for uneducated barbarians.

It had lightened his mood a little, and by the time they were at the Cornerstone, Wes seemed in a good mood once more. Activity tended to bring about revelations for him: by moving, he could figure things out, and while it drove both David and Blaine somewhat crazy to watch, he could pace for hours.

Once, just to see if he was secretly sitting down in the times when David or Blaine would go off to pick up food or do something else for a while, Blaine had resolutely pulled out his iPod and sat on the couch on the opposite side of him, waiting, determined to catch him in the act of cheating. Wes neither acknowledged him nor stopped, simply pacing as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world. For two hours and fifty-three minutes, he walked back and forth, back and forth, Blaine watching incredulously. At last, just when he was certain he would have lost his sanity for sheer boredom, Blaine was relieved of duty when Wes abruptly sat down.

"I figured it out," he had said calmly.

Blaine had shaken his head, stood up, and walked out.

That was the kind of person Wes was: a perfectionist almost to the extreme, a person who would spend nearly three hours solving a calculus problem instead of doing something more productive, like sleeping or playing Mario Cart with the rest of the Warblers. (In their defense, it had been post-finals' weekend, and everyone let their hair down -- figuratively, since few of the Dalton boys had hair long enough to let down -- for a time to just enjoy their own guilty pleasures.)

Brian, too, was a perfectionist, in his own way. He disliked anything abnormal or unexpected, and loathed surprises more than just about anything. Blaine coming out had to be the equivalent of a terminal lung cancer diagnosis for him. Even if he had been relatively neutral on the issue at first (no demands that Blaine change or reconsider, just subtle insinuations that he would 'grow out of it eventually'), that indifference had quickly spread to every and all issue involving Blaine. If Blaine wanted to spend the weekend at the Montgomeries, Brian was fine with that: less time that he had to force small talk at dinner. If Blaine wanted to invest himself in a glee club, Brian stepped aside and let him.

If Blaine wanted to transfer to William McKinley High School, Brian glanced over the papers, scribbled his pen once to test if the ink was still viable, and then signed unquestioningly.

Walking through the doors now, the familiar atmosphere suffusing him with a sudden and indescribable longing for the day when he had walked in with Wes in tow, Blaine pushed those thoughts aside and sat down at one of the empty tables near the far corner. There were a fair number of Westerville patrons enjoying their mornings in casual reclusion here already; none paid him any mind as he shimmied around tables and at last sank gratefully onto the rounded wooden chair. Everything about the place was welcoming: the warm wooden hues of the walls, the long, cream-colored counter coated generously in coffee-related extras, and the smooth round tables interspersed comfortably around. It was a more intimate setting than the Lima Bean in spite of its size -- the Cornerstone was roughly a third larger than its neighboring counterpart -- and it made Blaine think of dozens of various visits he had made while first adapting to being a part of the Westerville crowd instead of Hawthorne's.

Pulling out his iPod and slipping in the earbuds, Blaine set it on shuffle and folded his hands on the table, waiting. He had already had a cup of coffee before he had driven out -- something to sustain him for the early-morning ride had been a given, especially knowing the meeting that awaited -- so he skipped picking one up at the counter and instead pulled a notebook and pen out of his satchel. In it was his current list of colleges -- nowhere near as impressive as Rachel's conglomeration -- as well as benefits and drawbacks to each. For the most part, it was typical: he had five or six main choices and several other 'comfort' colleges, ones that he knew he would be accepted into given his exemplary record.

The only curio on the list was an absence: there was no NYADA listed.

Blaine traced absently around the names with his pen as he considered that. Kurt was, of course, still pressing hard to make it into the elite New York program, but Blaine had little ambitions of the same. He wanted to be involved in the music industry, yes, but the thought of competing against people like the ones Kurt had described didn't exactly appeal to him. He liked the hobby-esque nature of his glee club with the Warblers: it was less of a competition and more of a club, a true group in every sense of the word. They hung out together, they got on each other's nerves, they procrastinated, they practiced, and sometimes they even won competitions together.

The latter was not the greatest concern, however, and Blaine rarely stepped onto a stage thinking We have to win. He just got up there and sang, because that was what he did best and what he loved. Turning all of the good he had taken away from being a Warbler and turning it into a competition to make it into a certain college didn't appeal to him. He wanted to retain his memories as fondly as he had when he first created them, not turning over until all that mattered was winning.

Like Rachel, he mused, circling the New York schools he had listed. He was definitely interested in New York. Despite his mother's faintly southern origins, he had no interest in pursuing a career to the south (he had to admit that the heat alone would probably kill him before he acclimated) and little regard for western movement, either. It was all north east for him, Big Apple or bust. 'Bust' would have simply meant staying in Ohio, an option that looked even less appealing with people like Sebastian and, he had to admit, his parents still there.

Don't think like that, he warned himself. If you're going to fix anything, you can't be close-minded.

Checking the time on his iPod, Blaine blinked in surprise at the numbers: 7:58 AM. He had intentionally arrived at quarter-to-eight, intent on not having to rush to meet his father.

Smiling a little ruefully at the thought, he carefully tucked his iPod back inside his satchel, sliding his notebook and pen in there as well. No need to distract himself from the inevitable, he mused, while Brian hesitated on the outside of the door.

You can walk away, Blaine thought, and disliked how hopeful he sounded, even to himself. He had to want to make this right, not avoid it forever, if they were going to make any progress at all. This was mostly Brian's fault, yes, but if he wanted anything to change, he had to at least try and further the cause.

He waited and watched with a patient expression, straightening a little involuntarily when his father slowly pushed open the door. Brian did not hesitate then: he scanned the shop and, without further delay, cut briskly through the sea of small tables and slid into the opposite chair beside Blaine. Deliberately leaving his blazer on and folding his hands, Brian sat stiff-backed in his chair, regarding Blaine with an impassive expression.

Blaine was glad that he had chosen a table and not a booth: it was difficult enough to meet his father's scrutiny without wanting to scowl. If they had been sitting any closer, he might have stood up and left before he could stop himself.

His father cleared his throat before speaking, delicately so that none of the other people would have heard him. Blaine waited patiently -- living with Wes had given him that, at least -- until at last he clasped his hands. "When are you going to come home?" he asked, so nonchalantly Blaine would have thought they were discussing the upcoming Sunday football games.

Blaine blinked in surprise, momentarily wrong-footed by the lack of beating-around-the-bush. Brian wasn't particularly known for it, but it still caught him off guard that he would jump straight to that. "I don't know," he answered, keeping his voice at the same low, conspiratorial level that Brian had adopted. "When do you want me home?"

His father's fingers briefly tightened around each other -- visible in the whitening of the knuckles -- before relaxing again. "Blaine," he said, in his serious voice. It bled authority, and while once Blaine would have felt inclined to heed him more because of it, now he looked on with the same unchanging expression. "You can't stay . . . there forever."

"Can't stay where?" Blaine challenged. He would not let his father dance around the issue, now that he had set the stakes almost painfully high. If they were going to be blunt, then they were going to be blunt, and he wasn't about to accept any euphemisms or distractions his father wished to insert. If they were going to talk about this, they would talk about it. Brian's evident discomfort was his own problem, not Blaine's, and he relaxed a little at the knowledge that he had outwitted his father in that sector.

Brian was quick to reclaim lost ground. "The Hudsons. Or Hummels. Or whatever their name is. You can't stay there indefinitely. For one, I presume--" and here he added such emphasis Blaine was surprised the word didn't simply appear underlined and highlighted in midair, "--that you will wish to attend college after high school."

Blaine inclined his head to acknowledge the truth in that. Brian went on.

"Who do you expect to support you financially?"

"I'll support myself, if I have to," Blaine countered.

Brian made a dubious noise in the back of his throat.

"You're not going to make me come back with money," Blaine said sharply. "Are you really trying to buy me back?"

"We were generous enough to pay the tuition for Dalton for you, two years, no questions asked." He paused, steepling his fingers. "Now you expect us to let you stay at a stranger's house -- fine, relative stranger's house -- and then go off and pay for college by yourself?"

"If I have to, I will," Blaine replied calmly.

Shaking his head, seeming deeply unimpressed by this assessment, Brian leaned forward a little, tightening the invisible bubble around them. "You forget who I am, Blaine. The same man who raised you for fourteen years. Do you not think that I don't know what you're like? You're dependent. You wouldn't last one semester without us, even if we're not involved outside of business negotiations."

Blaine checked a wince. His father's reference to fourteen years instead of eighteen still hurt, even though he did his best to ignore it. It was not like he had stopped being his son the day he came out, Blaine inwardly griped, but he knew that saying as much aloud would only lead to another, endlessly fruitless argument.

Maybe you should try again, a small voice whispered. That's what you told Karofsky, after all. Never give up.

Mentally steeling himself, Blaine allowed a full minute to pass in silence before mimicking Brian's posture and speaking. "You know, Dad, I didn't stop being your son when I turned fourteen."

"We're not discussing this now," Brian said, his voice robotically flat.

Blaine shook his head. "It's the real issue, isn't it?" he demanded. "That you don't want me home because I'm still gay and--"

"Blaine," Brian said, coughing once gruffly as though to hide the word.

Throwing caution to the wind, Blaine said, quite clearly, "If you're homophobic, Dad, I really don't think I'm coming back anywhere."

Silence. Several of the nearby tables seemed to be listening in despite themselves, a few tentative ears cocked in their direction even while the chatter continued unceasingly. Blaine relaxed a little as he leaned back. Perhaps not the most diplomatic approach, but the honest one, and since that was what Brian had started out with, he had no problems continuing that way.

His father made a pained noise this time, like a rat being stomped on. "I'm not -- that," he said, spitting the last word as though that would somehow relieve him of any of its implications.

"So you'll finally acknowledge that I like boys?" Blaine replied in a would-be light tone.

Brian rubbed his forehead, half-hiding his face. It was answer enough.

"I don't want to come back," Blaine said at last, "not while you haven't changed at all. It's been four years -- Dad." And yes, the word did feel as bitter and awkward as he had feared it would, when used outside of his scathing retort, but he couldn't find a more suitable title and he needed to address Brian directly without inciting a tangent argument. "Can you please just accept that maybe this is who I am? Permanently?"

There was a pause during which Blaine could almost see the cogs in his father's mind turning. Then he shook his head and said, "If I can change, you can change," before leaning back in his seat as though that settled the matter.

"You can change your attitude," Blaine amended. "You can't change who you are. And don't even try and tell me you're naturally homophobic, because you're not."

Brian looked like he was about to get up and leave, regardless of how it would look the bystanders. Blaine silently deliberated pitching a final point before letting the silence suffuse the air between them. If his father had something to say, he would say it; if not, he would leave, and that would be the end of that particular conversation. Unsuccessful as always.

But instead of leaving, Brian sat with his fist still pressed against his forehead, his dark hair shielding his eyes from view. He was better than Blaine at hiding his emotions, Blaine noted wryly, with only the barest hint that he was considering seeping through the passive expression on his face. At last, he tilted his head upward in a jerky nod. "Very well," he said, every word sounding as though it was being forcibly pried out of him. "If this is how things will be then we have reached an impasse."

"Only if you make it that way," Blaine's mouth said before his brain had even fully registered his father's words.

Brian's face twitched in a momentary wince before he subdued it. "Would you be willing to come home for a week?" he asked at last.

"When?" Blaine threw back at once.

Brian looked like he was deeply considering it, something Blaine hadn't expected he would do. "You have a long weekend this Friday, correct?" Blaine nodded, wary but willing to listen. "Then Friday to Friday."

For a long time, Blaine thought about it. He did not immediately say 'no' like he half-wanted to, instead seriously looking at what it would be like to go -- well, home for a week. The thought that it actually seemed a lot worse than staying with the Hudson-Hummels was a testament to how bad things had gotten with his parents. He winced inwardly and folded his hands, thinking.

He could still say no and walk away from the proposition. Even Brian's thick-headedness towards his son's feelings would not extend to missing logical conclusions. He would understand why Blaine wouldn't want to be home after so long apart and, most importantly, so little contact when he had desperately needed it. In fact, judging by the slightly uncertain tinge to his face, Brian would probably be relieved if he said no: less difficulties to handle, a return to normalcy.

But if he said yes, then he might actually be able to make some progress, even if it would be hard at first. He could talk to his mother and see how she was doing, and work on the slow, painstaking process of making his father genuinely understand that his only son being gay was not an eternal punishment. It would mean longer drives to Lima for the school week (which would only be three days, courtesy of the long weekend) and fewer hours with his Lima-related friends. Fewer hours with the Hudson-Hummels -- and, most unpleasantly, fewer hours with Kurt.

"Why should I?" he asked, after the silence had fully solidified between them, creating an almost palpable barrier. His words shattered it, Brian starting a little as though from his own pensive notions, before he sighed.

"You haven't been home in almost nine weeks and you ask why you should?" he said quietly.

"Yes," Blaine retorted.

Brian closed his eyes briefly. He seemed torn between pained and resigned when he opened them again. "I have an obligation to you as a parent--" he began.

"So this is just clear-my-conscience work, then," Blaine finished succinctly. He wanted to shake Brian, but he knew that wouldn't be productive, besides potentially relieving some of the overwhelming frustration he felt. Didn't his father get it? At all? Or was he truly unmalleable, completely incapable of changing anymore?

"But I don't want this to be a lifelong obligation," Brian stressed.

Blaine fell silent. "So you want to mend things, too," he summarized.

Brian smiled faintly. "Yes."

It was Blaine's turn to run his hand through his hair and shake his head. "I'll let you know," he said at last. "If I don't call by Thursday, it's a 'no.'"

Although he said nothing aloud, it was clear that Brian understood as he nodded.

"I'll see you later . . . Blaine," he added, standing from his seat and smoothing his jacket a little. "Let me know."

Blaine nodded. "I will," he promised.

One way or another.

* * *

"So . . . he wants you to go home."

"Essentially, yes."

"And you're . . . going to?"

Blaine sighed. "I don't know yet," he admitted.

"But you're at least thinking about it," Kurt pointed out, sitting behind him and absentmindedly reading the laptop screen over his shoulder. They were up in Kurt's room once more, and it was definitely past what his dad had deemed their 'bedroom curfew' (courtesy of the Finn-Kurt fight in the kitchen about the appropriateness of having a boyfriend in the same room after a certain hour when no one was awake to properly police their actions). Kurt didn't care if he was breaking that rule -- his dad had only seemed mildly stern when he said it, without the serious look that he usually acquired when he meant something -- especially since Blaine, who had said he would be back by noon or so, didn't turn up until well after eight o'clock that night.

What he had done in Westerville, Kurt was slowly piecing together, eventually concluding that Blaine had mostly spent the time reacquainting himself with non-Warbler friends. He hadn't mentioned Dalton at all, despite several of Kurt's attempts to casually toss it in, and his eyes remained glued to the screen, hard to read from his present angle.

So he gave up on that line of thought and pursued the more productive one: whether or not Blaine would stay at his parents' house for a week.

If Kurt had been responsible, the politically correct answer would have been a resounding no. He didn't want Blaine to go back, especially so soon after he had finally seemed to get across to him that this was his home too. It seemed counterproductive to everything they had already accomplished, not to mention intimidating. The thought of being separated from Blaine was in itself not undoable, but the thought of Blaine being stuck at his parents' house in Westerville made Kurt's gut clench. He wanted to tell them that they had lost their chance, despite all the cajoling he had given Blaine that things would change: he wanted them to not take his boyfriend away, even if it was only for a week.

But his logical side knew which argument was more sound, and so he kept his voice carefully under lock-and-key to prevent the inner tide of negativity from overwhelming him. He wanted Blaine to make the right decision -- whatever that turned out to be -- and since Blaine knew more about his own parents than Kurt did, it was up to him to figure that out. Kurt was mostly there for moral support as well as a 'rebound' board, someone who Blaine could toss ideas off of and receive an opinion in return.

"I don't want to go," Blaine admitted suddenly.

Kurt paused, silencing the inner voice that cheered so he could speak calmly and rationally. "Then don't," he said.

"But I don't want this to be what forever is like," he added.

To that, Kurt had no quick, neat reply.

Blaine continued to scroll down on his laptop, reading some article or another that Kurt had lost track of a while back, until he suddenly snapped the screen shut and set it aside.

"What would you do?" he asked.

Kurt sighed, prepared to deflect, but Blaine beat him to the punch, turning around and sitting cross-legged on the bed, such an earnest expression on his face that Kurt couldn't have opened his mouth to retort if he had tried. "I'm serious. If this was what your choices were, what would you do?"

But this isn't my situation, Kurt wanted to say. This is yours, and this is your decision to make.

That wasn't the point of the question, however, and Kurt knew it. Blaine wanted -- needed -- some response that wasn't simply agreement or disagreement.

So Kurt did his best to put himself in Blaine's shoes.

If he had spent the past four years on the fringe of full-blown animosity with the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally, he doubted he would have survived high school ordinarily, let alone the Karofsky era without some outward support. He wouldn't have had 'home' to return to when things just seemed overwhelming and he wanted to lock himself away for a while and forget everything. There wouldn't be Finn barging in at the wrong times to be sympathetic and earning a frustrated, petty rant instead. Of course, eventually Kurt came around and realized that Finn was only trying to help and did his best to express that to Finn later on, even when the latter usually forgot his own irritation within a few mindless hours of videogaming. It would be his real mother, yes, instead of Carole preparing meals and doing work, but things still wouldn't be right: Carole loved and cared for him, while it was clear that Emily only did the bare minimum to pass as a 'mother.'

Not to mention Brian Anderson, the focal point of the situation.

Kurt was surprised at just how lonely it must be to be Blaine Anderson, even if Blaine never seemed lonely on the outside. For one, he was always around people, casually flowing through crowds and acquainting himself with different people. He was outgoing, intelligent, and charismatic, an envious combination that most high schoolers would have killed to obtain. Instead of backing away from challenges, he embraced them. Overall, he was a person that Kurt might have classified as 'perfect' even two years ago, had he never truly gotten to know him. Charming, witty, brave, smart, and handsome.

But still incredibly alone on one front, isolated from the one support system that everything else branched from.

If he went back, he might be able to rebuild that. Might. It was a tentative solution at best, a trial more than an answer, something that would either break or begin the restoration of his relationship with his parents.

You're part of our family. I just want you to feel part of yours, too.

Kurt closed his eyes. "I would say 'yes,'" he said at last, so softly he almost didn't hear himself.

Blaine stared at him, silent, contemplative, before nodding. "That's what I was thinking," was all he said.

* * *

Sectionals was almost there and gone before Kurt knew it.

One day, he was sitting in the choir room listening to the rest of the glee club chatter and watching Blaine out of the corner of his eye; the next, he was sitting on one of the dingy bus seats staring listlessly out the window, mentally reviewing the setlist they had. Rachel was in a spirit of activity, constantly moving and demanding perfect recitations of their schedule from anyone unfortunate enough to sit near her. Even Brittany had opted to sit in the back with the rest of them rather than up front with Mr. Schue and Rachel. The glee club coach looked like he was regretting his choice to sit up front, too, casting Rachel wary looks and keeping his head buried in notes about the competition.

Kurt barely paid any of that attention, so it came as an understandable shock to him when they were suddenly standing in the green room preparing for their first number. Where did the time go? He wondered, pulling on his first outfit while the rest of the New Directions did the same. Only Blaine remained motionless, sitting on the arm of one of the stiff leather couches and watching them with an amused expression. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that he wouldn't be performing with them, even though Kurt knew he was. Blaine was a performer: his natural environment was on a stage underneath a spotlight, not sitting in a back room waiting for everyone else to finish their performances.

"All right, guys," Mr. Schue said, ducking his head into the room. "We're first, so make sure you're ready!"

"Are you going to be okay?" Kurt asked seriously, sitting down on the couch beside Blaine. The latter looked down at him with a baffled look that might have fooled Kurt if they weren't sitting so close.

"Of course," he said, and at least his voice was filled with no false jocularity. He was disappointed that he couldn't perform, and while Kurt regretted it, he knew there was nothing they could do about it now.

"Regionals," he promised, giving Blaine's knee a squeeze.

Blaine made a noncommittal noise and looked aside as Mercedes approached.

"You ready?" she asked Kurt, smiling broadly, as she offered him a hand-up. He accepted it, hopped nimbly to his feet, and shrugged.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he said dryly. "Sorry," he added to Blaine as she dragged him towards the door. Blaine smiled at him and shook his head. Go for it, he mouthed. Then, making a show of arranging himself on the couch, he clasped his hands behind his head in the picture of relaxation, casting glances at the tiny sound system in the high corner. That, at least, he could tolerate, even if full blown performances still caused him unpleasant headaches.

Kurt let himself be hauled away, regretting it when they bumped into Rachel midway to the auditorium back door. "We have to make this amazing," Rachel said fiercely. "I won't get into NYADA otherwise."

"I'm sure NYADA will consider things other than one glee performance," Kurt reminded tolerantly.

"This isn't just one glee performance," Rachel said in a scandalized tone as she smoothed her shirt and scowled at him. "This is sectionals. And any formal performance counts towards NYADA."

Arguing would have been futile, so Kurt kept his mouth shut and walked with the rest of the group to the back stage. It was already populated by technicians and stage crew taking last minute checks on the systems, black hoodies appearing and disappearing before Kurt could notice any faces distinctly. He stood out of their way and watched as they readied the set, the master of ceremonies walking out and taking his position at the front mike.

"Good evening, everyone," Kurt heard him say.

Straightening, ready for this, he waited on the balls of his heels, watching Finn from the corner of his eye as he walked to the front-and-center position.

We can do this, Kurt thought, grinning, as he looked at the rest of the New Directions. Almost three years of working had brought them to this point, where competitions were second nature.

Let's roll.

". . . the New Directions!"

* * *

Kurt was surprised to see Blaine and Dave Karofsky standing at the end of the hallway together. Their proximity was still distant enough that most of the students would have mistaken it for nonchalance, but Kurt could see the tension almost visibly between them, mostly on Karofsky's end of the equation. With a sudden movement, Karofsky disappeared down a side hallway, Blaine following without a word. Kurt blinked, shutting his locker door behind him.

"What's wrong, boo?" Mercedes asked, nudging his arm as she appeared at his side. "You look sick."

"I'm not," Kurt assured, still looking at the spot where Karofsky and Blaine had disappeared. What's going on? And why hasn't he said anything? Is Karofsky harassing him now?

The thought made Kurt's stomach turn. "I just . . . need to talk to someone," he said, walking towards the spot.

"You can tell me," Mercedes reminded lightly.

"I -- later."

He turned around the corner and looked, but he couldn't see either Karofsky or Blaine. Worried, uncertain, Kurt trailed off down the hallway, scanning the classrooms absently. Nothing.

Twenty minutes or so passed, Kurt unable to help the trepidation from building inside him, making it hard to concentrate. What if he's hurt? If Karofsky did anything. . . .

When the first bell rang, Kurt scowled and decisively walked towards the choir room. If he was lucky, he could intercept Blaine on the way.

He didn't see him en route, but Blaine was already sitting on the top tier when he stepped into the choir room, his hands clasped around his knee and a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. "Where've you been?" Kurt asked, feigning lightness. Relief was allowing curiosity and even a slight tinge of anger to break through -- what was going on?

"Hmm?" Blaine said, then turned to look at him and seemed to remember where he was. "Oh, I just took the long way," he said with a dismissive shrug.

Kurt continued to look at him skeptically, hoping it would prompt an explanation (although, he admitted silently, it was quite possible that was the answer, even if it was only part of the truth). It didn't. Blaine continued to look ahead with a thoughtful expression on his face, responding vaguely to Kurt's casual queries about his plans for the upcoming weekend.

"So what were you doing with Karofsky?" Kurt asked at last.

Blaine frowned. "Talking," he said, as though this should have been obvious.

"About what?" Kurt prompted, glad to have finally elicited more than an 'mmhmm' from Blaine.

Blaine's brow furrowed. "Is something wrong with that?" he evaded.

Kurt pretended to think. "Well, other than the fact that he was the same guy who chased me out of this school less than a year ago. . . ." He trailed off.

"Wait, I thought you said you forgave him," Blaine pointed out.

"I do," Kurt said, without enough sincerity in his voice. Blaine heard it and frowned slightly deeper.

"No, you don't."

Kurt opened his mouth to deny it but found only dry air.

Blaine's expression went from confused to distinctly annoyed. "Kurt. It's not like we're dating. Am I not allowed to have a conversation with him?"

"Why would you even want to talk to him?" Kurt demanded.

"So now I need your approval to talk to him?" Blaine retorted, standing up. "Kurt, put politely, it's none of your business."

And now Kurt was angry. "None of my business?" he repeated incredulously. "It's none of my business that my boyfriend is secretly meeting with my former bully? Who also happens to be gay?"

"We're not meeting secretly," Blaine argued.

"Then why haven't you told me?"

"Why should I have had to?"

Silence. Kurt didn't even realize when Blaine had walked down the tiers so he was standing on the ground, his satchel slung over one shoulder.

"What are you doing with him that's that important?" Kurt asked in an almost awed tone. The only other time he could recall Blaine being this angry was when he had been discussing dating Rachel. The comparison did nothing for Kurt's nerves -- what if they are . . . dating? What if that's why he's so defensive?

Blaine wouldn't do that, his logical side argued at once.

Then where was he on Monday night? Why did he look sickened when he saw you?

Maybe that was stretching the truth -- Blaine had only been pale and quiet, more sick than sickened, but Kurt could see from the darkening of Blaine's eyes now that he was thoroughly irritated.

"We're not doing anything," he said empathetically.

"Then why don't you just tell me?" Kurt asked, his exasperation bleeding through.

He should have kept it under lock and key.

"Maybe," he said, in a tone that said there was no uncertainty about it, "this is something he and I have to sort out."

He was gone before Kurt could ask what that was supposed to mean.

Simmering, Kurt sank back down onto his chair. What's so damn important he won't tell me? What's so interesting about Karofsky that he can't bear to let me know?

Shutting those thoughts aside, Kurt didn't even look up when the rest of the New Directions trickled in over the next twenty minutes, still satisfied in the post-sectionals high.

What are you doing with him, Blaine?

Yet, somehow more importantly: Why won't you tell me?

* * *

By noon, most of Kurt's anger had dissolved, giving way to indignation and frustration. Why couldn't he just tell me? he wondered, his gaze drifting around the cafeteria in absentminded searching for Karofsky. What was so important that he couldn't tell me?

Or terrible, his cynical side reminded. It could have been that he didn't want to break the bad news to you.

Kurt shoved those thoughts aside.

At three o'clock, when he stepped over the threshold to his house, he knew that something was wrong.

It only took a cursory search to figure it out -- every trace of Blaine was gone. He had even deflated and packed away the air mattress, the floor on Kurt's room seeming oddly empty without it.

Disbelieving that a simple argument over Karofsky had turned into this, Kurt pulled out his phone.

What's going on? he wrote.

No response. An hour passed.

Blaine. Talk to me.

Nothing. Another hour passed.

Blaine? Please respond.

Silence.

* * *

"Welcome home," his mother said, the warmth in her voice surprisingly genuine. She had generously agreed to drop her work for a couple hours to pick him up and drive him back to Westerville (his Jeep was still at the house; he didn't want to deal with returning Kurt's car, so he had asked her instead). The ride had been quiet, with the radio supplying music while his mother chatted to fill the empty noise.

Looking around the room, Blaine nodded once in acceptance. It felt strange, walking back inside his own house for the first time in who-knew-how-long, knowing that it wasn't just a quick visit.

Maybe this was meant to happen, he mused bitterly, ignoring his phone as it vibrated again. He had only left it on in case someone else texted him --the regular buzzes, he ignored.

You're blowing this out of proportion, his logical side warned. You shouldn't have just run off like that.

He was surprised at how angry Kurt had seemed when he first broached the topic, initially thinking that something else was wrong with him and wondering what that was. It quickly became clear that the only problem was Blaine talking with Karofsky and that, no matter what he said to deter him, Kurt wanted to know exactly what they were talking about. Although it was a bizarre sort of relationship, Karofsky trusted Blaine, and Blaine wasn't sure if it was his place to disclose what their latest conversation had been about. Apparently Karofsky was concerned about some friends that seemed to 'know' something was different about him, and Blaine, being the mentor, was supposed to have some neat solution ready and handy.

Unfortunately, he knew exactly how his situation had been when he came out publicly, and he doubted that that would be helpful advice to Karofsky.

So he had done his best to explain that for now, nothing changed, so he was still on the same grounds as they were. Of course, sooner or later he would have to make a decision, and if that decision was to remain permanently in the closet, Blaine knew it would only last so long before something happened and it slipped out regardless. Better to choose the time they found out than to have them find out on their own, he had argued, while Karofsky looked deeply skeptical.

The combination of the argument with Karofsky, the pending week with his parents, the prospect of still not being able to perform at competitions, and the knowledge that Sebastian had -- cuddled with him had created a powder keg. Kurt's insistence and anger that he wasn't telling him something that was none of his business had ignited the flashpoint, and before Blaine knew it he was here, standing in his room with his duffel bag on the floor beside him.

I'm home, he thought dully, ignoring his phone as it vibrated again. Then he paused, pulled it out of his pocket, and, without reading any of the previous texts, wrote, Please stop texting me, before turning it off and pocketing it once more. He didn't even know what prompted him to add the 'please' -- he was still angry with Kurt -- but he did, and he didn't feel like adding another text just to say he didn't mean it.

You'll regret this, his logical side persisted.

Blaine shut it off and busied himself with his laptop instead.

* * *

Guilt had set in by sunset.

Kurt couldn't help thinking about what Blaine was doing right then, even if he knew he should still be angry at him. Clearly, whatever was going on -- and Kurt winced to think about it -- he had overstepped and now he had no way of correcting things. Granted, he still had a car, and he could force a conversation with Blaine if need be, but he felt like that probably wouldn't be the best idea, especially after the first and only text Blaine had sent since Kurt started texting him.

Please stop texting me.

Unable to disobey, Kurt had stopped.

"Where's Blaine?" his dad asked as he climbed slowly down the stairs. Kurt shook his head wordlessly.

"He went back to his parents," he said simply.

His dad seemed puzzled. "Something happen?" he asked.

Kurt sighed, wishing he could sound more exasperated than defeated. "No, Dad."

"You sure?" he insisted, stepping forward. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed. "He hurt you, didn't he?"

"What?" Kurt blanched. "No, he didn't. I . . . I think I kind of hurt him, actually," he admitted.

His dad frowned, standing in front of him now. "What happened?"

Kurt shook his head. "I don't even know. We just . . . had an argument and it kind of got out of control."

His dad was silent for a long time, appraising. At last, he said, "Just give him some time."

How much? Kurt wondered silently.

To that, he had no answer.


	30. Chapter 30

Blaine would not transfer back to Dalton Academy. He had made his decision when he left that he would not return, regardless of how bad things got at McKinley, and he was not going to break that promise, even if it was difficult. He wanted to just pick up everything where it had left off at the end of junior year -- auspicious, hopeful, prospective -- and move from there. The days before he had ever had to worry about James re-entering his life, Sebastian harassing him for some unknown end, or David Karofsky asking for his advice. When Wes and David were still there and he could walk the short distance across the dorms to their respective rooms and hang out with them whenever the approaching 'college blues' overcame him.

Things had been going so well at the end of junior year. He had the world before him and more confidence than ever before, a boyfriend and a best friend all in one.

Where had that goodness gone?

I just . . . I want my senior year to be magic.

Magic.

Was that what he was lacking? That first spark of initiative that would allow him to solve all his problems and reassemble the twisted pieces of his parents' relationship with him? The solution that would be all-encompassing, that would finally erase all the marks of Bletcher's attack (and it didn't matter to Blaine that he was rusting away in a jail cell for battery, attempted murder, vandalism, and arson; he had still prevented Blaine from participating in sectionals, and that mattered more)? Blaine didn't know, but at this point, he was willing to try just about anything.

Rubbing his forehead, bone-weary and restless all in one, Blaine set his laptop aside and sighed. It was 3:41 AM, and while it had been a while since he had been this much of an insomniac, he could understand why quite clearly. Without worrying about waking anyone, Blaine shifted off his bed and tugged a hoodie over his head. Maybe if he just took a walk, cleared his mind a little, he could finally drop off. That was all he wanted right then: to just sleep and forget that he had ever woken up that morning. The fight with Kurt still made his fists clench and his teeth grit with the urge to just scream at the unfairness of it all. He wasn't mad at Kurt. (Well. Maybe he was, he thought darkly, given the indignation that rose up at that.) He was mad at everything else, everyone and anyone that was making it impossible for him to sleep.

As he padded silently downstairs, he was not expecting the figure sitting in the hardest chair in the living room, a book perched in his hands. He nearly missed him entirely until he looked over and startled.

"Hey," he said.

Brian inclined his head, his reading glasses balanced on the edge of his nose, the nearby lamp creating odd shadows on his face. "Can't sleep?" he asked in a colorless tone.

Blaine shook his head.

Dog-earring his page, Brian set the book on the table beside him and rested his arm against the arm of the couch instead, watching Blaine pensively. For several long moments Blaine stared back, at last giving in and tossing his head to one side with a frustrated sigh.

"I'm going for a walk," he announced gruffly.

"Mind if I join you?"

Blaine froze, one hand extended towards the door, and turned slowly to look at Brian, who was leaning forward now, on the verge of standing or leaning back, either option equally likely. "If you want to," he edged slowly at last, pulling the door open.

"I would like to, yes," Brian said, and he stood up with a smooth motion before ambling over. He plucked off one of his business coats from the rack and tossed it briskly over his shoulders before following Blaine out into the frosty night air.

For a long time, they walked in silence, Blaine warily keeping pace with his father even when it meant that he couldn't walk as fast. Brian had a slight limp to his step whenever he walked too far; it surprised Blaine for more than one reason that he would elect to walk with him now, knowing how long Blaine could sometimes spend on his walks.

"Why don't we take a break?" Brian asked companionably, gesturing to a nearby bench. Blaine almost told him that he could sit and he would go on before sighing and sitting down on the farthest end of the bench, instead. Brian almost visibly creaked as he mimicked the gesture on the opposite side, the greatest amount of space possible between them.

"So what brought this about?" his father asked, rubbing his hands together slowly to warm them.

Blaine grimaced and looked aside. "I don't want to talk about it," he said stiffly.

Silence. Then: "We can't always talk about things we want to."

Blaine barked a laugh before he could help himself, wrapping his arms around his middle as though he could hold it in. "Really? That's what you have to say to me?"

Another, longer pause.

"I'm sorry," Brian said at last. If a badger had ever been given the ability to speak, its apology would have sounded precisely like that: old, frost-worn, and with a decade's worth of dust accumulated over the words. "That was . . . hypocritical."

Blaine eyed him: his stiff posture slightly slouched, an uncharacteristic defeat weighing down on his shoulders. At last he said, "Why are you doing this?" before he could keep the words in check.

"You're my son," Brian answered at once.

Blaine shook his head. "That's not good enough, and you know it."

Brian sighed, clasping his hands together now. They looked thinner than Blaine remembered. He looked thinner than he had ever seen him before, as though somehow an infinitesimal portion of Blaine's stress had touched upon him and shaved off the raw layer of emotion known as naÃ¯vete and reduced him to a slighter replica of himself.

In short, it was strange, seeing his father look so much smaller than usual. For once, Blaine could actually see the resemblance between them, even though he inherited most of his features from his mother.

"I'm sorry," Brian repeated. "I'm so sorry, Blaine."

Blaine shivered and stood up. "Stop it," he whispered. For four years he had been waiting to hear sincerity in his father's voice when he said it instead of the mechanical dryness. Four years, and now here it was, and it still changed nothing.

Brian stood up, too, although his motion was slower and slightly less smooth. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted.

"Stop," Blaine repeated, backing away.

"I can't do this unless you're willing," he added, a hint of genuine uncertainty entering his voice.

Blaine closed his eyes. "You. . . ." He breathed out raggedly through his mouth. "You want to fix this."

"Yes," Brian said simply.

Opening and closing his mouth, Blaine shook his head and started walking.

"Where are you going?" Brian asked, his voice resigned.

Blaine didn't answer. He just kept walking. After a time, he thought he heard Brian walk away, but that could have been his own footsteps, too.

* * *

"The hell, dude?" James yawned as he opened the door. "S'like four in the morning. . . ."

"Sorry," Blaine said. Something in his voice must have tipped James off because he sighed and gestured in wearily.

"S'okay. Just . . . damn, I need caffeine." Wandering into the kitchen, he pulled out a can of Mountain Dew and drank the entire thing in less than ten seconds. Blaine sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs while he did so, watching him in vacant interest.

"Better?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"Mmph. Decent." Digging through the fridge, James fished out two more cans before walking over to the table and sitting across from Blaine. He slid the second can to Blaine as he popped open the lid on the first. "You need one," he said seriously, when Blaine made a move to push it away. He wasn't a fan of Mountain Dew -- mostly he just drank water -- but at the moment it was caffeine and the earlier drag of fatigue seemed both stronger and less tangible than ever. He drank deeply, gratefully, and set the half-full can aside after a moment.

"What's the occasion?" James asked in a sleep-hoarse voice. "Someone die? Shit. Who was it?"

"No one died," Blaine assured dully.

"Hit by a car? Kidnapped? Give me a hint." He yawned expansively. "Sadie!" he expounded suddenly.

Blaine blinked. "What about her?" he asked, slightly warily.

"She's here," James added, coughing slightly. "Downstairs. She, uh, heard about you being in town and everything and well. . . ." He yawned again. "Damn if I'm awake for this. She--" another yawn "she's pissed. But she wants to see you. So i' good." He took another long drag on his Mountain Dew. "It's too early."

"Sorry," Blaine repeated half-heartedly.

"S'not your fault. Okay. No one's dead. That's good." James scratched the back of his neck. "Your puppy get shot or something?"

"I don't have a dog, James."

"Oh yeah."

A long silence, during which James drained the remainder of his Mountain Dew and scrutinized Blaine with a determined look.

"You're . . . upset," he said decisively.

Blaine chuckled hollowly. "Got it in one."

"Well," James yawned, "more like seven. Or something. The hell's wrong, Blaine? I need to beat someone up for ya? I'll do it," he added, sounding completely unperturbed. "Hell, someone's bothering you, I'll--"

"I don't want you to beat up my dad," Blaine said, very quietly.

James stared at him, uncomprehending. Then: "Oh. Oh. Wow. Still bad?"

He shrugged a little. "I don't know," he said, hating how pathetic he sounded. "It's . . . complicated."

"Sounds like a Facebook status," James mused, resting his palms flat on the table. Blaine didn't even quirk a smile. "Oh. Shit. That serious?"

Blaine sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Can I just . . . stay here for tonight?"

James face was surprisingly serious as he answered. "'Course," he said without hesitation.

Blaine closed his eyes slightly in gratitude. He had forgotten how nice it was to have that unhesitating acceptance from someone who wasn't his boyfriend or supposedly morally obligated to like him.

* * *

"Where's Blaine?"

Kurt only realized that Blaine had not entered the choir room when Finn asked. He sighed and shook his head, ignoring the bitter feeling of regret lodged deep within his gut. "I don't think he's coming," he admitted. "He didn't respond to any of my texts this morning and I haven't heard from him since last night, so. . . ." He shrugged. It wasn't entirely unexpected -- Blaine had completely moved out in less than a day, without giving Kurt any warning; why shouldn't he avoid school as well? -- but it still hurt, knowing that he had caused this.

I shouldn't have pushed him so hard. I should have backed off. He wouldn't have left if I didn't push him so hard.

In spite of everything, all Kurt wanted was to know that Blaine was okay. He was terrified that he had truly hurt him, in some way that might irreparably damage their relationship. The notion had seemed childish when it first occurred to him, but after dozens of texts and no response from Blaine's end, he was beginning to wonder. Maybe he had overstepped too far. Maybe Blaine wasn't going to take time to sort this out. Maybe he would just transfer back to Dalton and start rebuilding his life there.

Kurt shuddered slightly at the thought. Blaine at the same school as Sebastian was a nauseating consideration, one that had Kurt's worry hiking up considerably as he scanned the choir room for the dozenth time since entering.

Finn's brow furrowed as he followed his gaze around the room. "Did you two get in a fight or something?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged. "You could call it that."

Finn puffed up almost visibly. "Do I need to--?"

"It was my fault," Kurt inserted firmly. He didn't want Finn antagonizing Blaine just because he was supposedly the source of Kurt's upset (even if he was; just not in that way). Finn wouldn't understand the delicate line between I'm upset because of him and I'm upset for him. He would just see Kurt's hurt expression and protect first, ask questions later.

It made Kurt's throat tighten a little at the thought that Finn was picking sides already. It seemed like it had been years since Kurt had first yelled at him for being prejudiced against Blaine, and with barely a word to incriminate him, he was already fully prepared to set himself against Blaine, if need be.

I caused this. Kurt stared at the empty doorway and closed his eyes briefly. I shouldn't have pushed so hard. I shouldn't have--

He could almost feel Finn rear up in surprise. Kurt opened his eyes.

Blaine did not look at either of them as he stepped into the choir room.

Kurt's first instinct was to get up and hug him. He made it out of his chair and two steps closer before Blaine gave him a look that was purely No.

Kurt silently sat back down, gripping his fingers together tightly. He could tell that, in spite of his earlier assurance, Finn was glaring at Blaine with the Don't you dare hurt him look he only wore when he was looking at Karofsky.

It hurt knowing that Finn categorized Blaine and Karofsky -- the former Karofsky, Kurt forced himself to concede, not the same boy he had forgiven and trusted to reform -- in the same category. Blaine looked at Finn briefly before looking aside, his expression blank. He walked over to the seat on the farthest side of the choir room and sat down.

Slowly, the choir room filled out, with most of the New Directions arriving together. Kurt couldn't take his eyes off Blaine, even though he could tell from the way Blaine was determinedly looking at the door that he didn't want to be stared at right now. It was hard enough watching his boyfriend hurting and alone and being completely incapable of doing anything about it; it was worse because Blaine wasn't just his boyfriend, he was his best friend, the one person Kurt couldn't see upset without wanting desperately to do something.

So he itched and squirmed silently in his seat, fighting against the urge to get up and sit next to him, regardless of the consequences. Blaine would probably leave and then they would be no further to fixing this than they had been before. You just need to give him some time,his dad had said. Kurt grimaced as he clenched his fingers around his knee. It was easy to accept when he was standing in front of his dad. It was harder when he had been alone in his room wondering how Blaine was handling his night back at his parents. Not well, it looked like, judging by the vague shadows around Blaine's eyes. He didn't look like he had slept at all, and Kurt's desire to just wrap him up in a hug and hold on until everything was okay again redoubled.

Give him space, his logical side urged. You won't do him any favors if you push him again. You might make things worse.

Sighing inaudibly, Kurt leaned back in his chair.

He was surprised when Brittany walked directly over to Blaine and wordlessly sat down beside him. Blaine didn't turn to look at her, but he also didn't reject her when she wrapped her arms casually around his waist. Kurt could have sworn he saw him lean in a little, eyes at half-mast, before gently disentangling himself. She asked something in a quiet voice and he shook his head. She didn't say anything else, just leaning against his side like it was the most logical thing to do.

Blaine's eyes stayed half-masted like that for the rest of glee club, a bit of the unspoken tension around him seeming to ease.

Kurt had never felt more grateful for Brittany.

* * *

"What's wrong with you two?"

Kurt blinked and looked at Mercedes in surprise as she sat down at the table. Mostly, he'd been watching Blaine, who was sitting with Brittany and Artie and Mike and Tina, looking like he was doing his best not to fall asleep right there. Kurt might have found him endearing when he was sleepy and complacent on other days, but the bone-weary exhaustion in his expression now was nothing short of heart-wrenching. The urge to get up and make amends somehow had only grown since glee club, and Kurt was relatively certain that there was no way he was going to be able to hold out much longer.

Patience, he warned himself. Don't ruin this completely.

"It's just . . . complicated," Kurt said at last, shaking his head.

"Mmm," Mercedes said, looking at Blaine briefly before looking back at you. "Do I need to cut someone?"

"Why does everyone assume he did something wrong?" Kurt demanded, a little unfairly since it really was only his dad, Finn, and now Mercedes.

"I'm not asking if I need to cut him, boo. Is there someone else?"

Kurt sighed and shook his head again. "No. This is between the two of us and we just need to work it out on our own."

"So why don't you go talk to him?"

"He needs some space."

"He looks like he needs you more than space," Mercedes pointed out.

Kurt shrugged a little, unable to deny his inward agreement that he could improve Blaine's situation. Maybe. The firmness of Blaine's unspoken rejection earlier had stunned him; he had never seen Blaine that outright hostile towards him before, even if the hostility was simply a keep-your-distance warning.

I don't want to keep my distance, Kurt protested inwardly. I want you to be okay.

"I'm just worried about overstepping. I already did it once, I don't want to do it again."

"Boo, can I be really honest?" Kurt blinked in surprise; he was fairly certain that Mercedes was almost always honest with him, so it was different to hear her asking permission to be even more so. He tentatively nodded. "He needs you. Whatever else is going on between you two can wait."

Mouth inexplicably dry, Kurt sat staring at Blaine for a long time, considering.

I don't want to overstep.

But I don't want to sit back and watch this eat at him, either.

Nodding slowly, he said, "I'll talk to him."

"Do it soon," Mercedes urged. "Before he goes back to Westerville."

Ignoring the painful stab of regret that reminder brought about -- Kurt was almost amazed just how much he missed Blaine now that he no longer stayed at the Hudson-Hummels -- Kurt nodded again. "I will," he promised.

* * *

"Can I talk to you?"

He was certain, from the frigid cold-shouldering Blaine had been giving him since he had intercepted him to the parking lot, that Blaine would ignore him or tell him 'no' outright. He had been convinced that Blaine would just keep walking and continue to not acknowledge him, or at best tell him that he didn't want to talk about anything with him. Any one of those options would have fit in with Kurt's mental estimation of 'what he deserved,' and so he was surprised when Blaine actually stopped walking. He didn't turn to look at him or offer any further acknowledgement, but the invitation was clear.

"I'm sorry," Kurt said, infusing all the sincerity he possibly could into his voice. He saw the way Blaine's shoulders stiffened and he winced a little, wondering if he had somehow messed up already. "I didn't mean to push you like that, and I shouldn't have. I just -- I wanted to make sure that everything was okay."

A long pause stretched between them. Then Blaine said, "Everything's fine," and kept walking.

Kurt opened his mouth to call after him but couldn't find the words. He shut his mouth and watched instead.

What am I supposed to do? he wondered desperately. Go after him?

Yes.

Kurt was glad for the decisive voice that spoke up then, even if he had no idea where it had come from. "Blaine, wait," he said, hurrying to catch up. Blaine was almost at his Jeep before he stopped again, letting out a deep sigh before turning to face Kurt.

"Can we not talk about this right now?" he asked quietly.

Kurt knew he had heard him say that before, he was absolutely positive, but he could not remember from where. And he was fairly sure he knew what the result of that conversation had been, too, even if the topic eluded him.

So he stepped forward, just a little, and said softly, "Please don't shut me out."

Blaine closed his eyes and actually swayed a little on his feet, visibly indecisive.

"Later," was all he said.

* * *

Sadie had grown, Blaine noticed, bemused. He had somehow expected her to remain the same almost gangly teenager of his freshman year, brown hair pulled messily back into a ponytail and hands planted on her hips. That, at least, had not changed: she still had her hands on her hips, coupled with a thunderous expression on her face. If Blaine was not confident that James would intervene before things became too violent, he would have been concerned about her gutting him right there.

"You," she said, her jaw working as though she was resisting the urge to swear. It looked like a tremendous effort, and Blaine appreciated that he had met her in a public place. She would not completely explode as long as she knew her reputation was at stake, an inborn philosophy that could not be shaken. Nevertheless, there were plenty of ways around swearing and physical violence to express her outrage, and the way her lips curled in a disapproving frown a moment later proved it. "I can't believe you," she said at last.

Blaine waited patiently to see if she would add anything more. When it was clear that she had no intention of speaking until he had plead his case, Blaine clasped his hands together and leaned back a little. "I'm sorry," he said, because there were truly no other words for this. "I didn't want to upset you."

"Upset me?" Sadie repeated, stepping forward and giving him a slight shove. Blaine went with it -- better to let her burn off steam while she was still calm enough to use only non-aggressive gestures -- and watched her face as she glared at him. "Do you have any idea what it was like for us? Knowing that you had just disappeared like that?"

Blaine looked away and shook his head, because the emotion was too strong in Sadie's eyes to contemplate when they were this close. "I was stupid," he admitted. "I didn't -- I just thought if I ignored it long enough, it would stay swept under the rug."

She gave him another shove, slightly harder. Again, he went with it, unresisting, although secretly wondering how soon he might have to pull the James-intervention card. Sadie had a towering temper once it ignited, and while Blaine was determined to make amends with both of them, he was not willing to pay his penance in bodily harm. He trusted Sadie not to take things too far, but it was always questionable when she was angry if she would follow through with her standards or not. Right then, standing in the middle of the park with only a few bystanders nearby, Blaine was glad that James had chosen to linger with his book on one of the park benches a dozen yards or so away.

His gaze, Blaine noted, in the half-second before he flicked his own back to Sadie's, was contemplative, calculating. He understood as well as Blaine that this conversation needed to happen and that it would be easier to let Sadie control rather than resist. Easy compliance was always the best route with Sadie's anger, whether it was explaining why one of her favorite possessions was broken or why the rain predicted for Saturday had come on Thursday instead. James would only step in if necessary.

Please don't be necessary, Blaine thought silently, looking at Sadie seriously. She scowled at him and seemed to consider giving him another shove before shaking her head in disgust.

"What happened to sticking together?" she demanded. "Why did you just disappear like that?"

Blaine could hear the righteous anger in her voice -- he would have been deaf to miss it -- but he could also trace the undercurrent of sadness. Three years ago, he might have neglected it, hearing only the anger, the frustration. Now, however, it made his heart ache to know that he had caused that, caused Sadie to worry and fret about him just because he had refused to give her any explanation.

I'm sorry, he thought, staring at her. "I was afraid," he admitted quietly. "I didn't want to think about what it would be like, returning to Hawthorne." The word felt bitter on his tongue, a poison that he had built up only moderate immunity to. The effects still lingered, persevering in spite of his attempts to leave them firmly implanted in the past, and saying the name sent a slight shiver down his spine that he had no control over.

Sadie's expression softened fractionally, but her arms were crossed and her overall demeanor still foreboding. "You should have told us," she repeated empathetically.

Blaine nodded to acknowledge that. "I know," he said.

She scowled at him and shoved him a third time. This time, he reached out and caught her wrists before she could retreat. "I hated leaving you two behind," he said, looking at her seriously, knowing she would automatically include James in the equation. James had known him longer, after all, and known that he was out before Sadie had. "I never wanted it to be like that."

"Then why did you do it?" she demanded, stepping close, deliberately staring him down. They were almost eye-to-eye, but Blaine held his ground.

"I had to."

She glared at him and made another aborted motion to shove him.

"Sadie. Leave him alone," James said suddenly, appearing at Blaine's shoulder as he released her wrists.

"Stay out of this, Jay," she warned without looking away from Blaine.

James shook his head but didn't say anything.

"You can be angry at me," Blaine said. "I'm not saying you have to stop being angry at me. I just . . . I don't want to keep living separate lives like this. I don't want to keep shutting you two out."

Like you just shut Kurt out? a small voice piped in.

Blaine delicately shoved that to a separate corner of his mind. Later, he repeated silently.

Sadie was looking at him in an appraising way, half-resigned to anger, half-intrigued by the fact that she could be angry at him if she wished to be. At last, she made a slightly disgusted sound and stepped forward, surprising Blaine by hugging him. Then she punched him in the gut and he doubled over, winded.

"Never do anything like that again," she said seriously.

Blaine shook his head. "Never," he repeated breathlessly.

She paused, hesitated, then said almost too quickly for him to notice, "It's good to see you again, B."

* * *

Blaine checked a grimace as he stepped into the Warblers' hall. Trume was already sitting in the head councilor's seat, writing frenetically on a piece of paper. His fingers moved so quickly it was almost surreal, the sharp flicks of his letters peppering the sheet. Generously deciding not to intrude, Blaine selected one of the more comfortable seats and waited, his legs crossed and his left hand balanced carefully on his right knee.

Trume spent another five minutes writing steadily and without pause, his hand moving fluidly across the paper, before he abruptly set it down and lifted his green eyes to meet Blaine's gaze. "Yes?" he asked, for all the world as though he was a businessman negotiating with an unruly client.

Blaine inwardly rolled his eyes. How the Warblers elected you, I'll never know. "What do you know about Sebastian?" he asked, his voice the epitome of lightness. He was proud of just how nonchalant the words sounded, like he had had no idea who this Sebastian character even was until some person mentioned it in passing and was only now reiterating it for conventional purposes.

Trume's reaction was anything but nonchalant. Although his face remained unaltered, Blaine was watching his fingers, and they tightened convulsively around his pencil before relaxing. "I know as much as any of the others," he stated, the steady quality to his voice almost enough to mask his momentary guilt. Blaine resisted the urge to point out the gesture and its inherent disqualification of that statement. Besides, Blaine had spent the last few days well, utilizing the free time he had to search Dalton for the roots Sebastian had poisoned. His primary suspect was Jacob Trume, the one person that had no connection to the other Warblers whatsoever, and thus no other allegiances -- aside from his strange propensity to consult Sebastian and agree with him on many of his bigger decisions.

"Jacob agreed with Sebastian when he said he wanted to visit McKinley," Jeff helpfully supplied one evening. Blaine had been about to leave when he was intercepted by the blonde-haired Warbler, and that intriguing bit of information had lead to a conversation so lengthy that Blaine was well over an hour past curfew by the time he parked his Jeep at his house.

It was still bizarre, returning to his house every day instead of Kurt's. He felt like he was a visitor overstaying his welcome in spite of his mother's insistence that she 'loved' having him around. It was clear, from the hours she still spent with her laptop in the living room, that this 'love' only extended to the fact that she did not openly condescend Blaine's sexuality and that she attempted to make small talk with him at least twice a day. Usually the results were moderately productive: Blaine did his best to avoid 'serious' topics and only commented on the topics she dictated rather than initiated his own. It was an effective way of preventing issues from arising in their conversation that neither wanted to address.

We have to address them sometime, Blaine reminded himself silently. We can't just keep piling everything up under the rug.

He watched Trume's face carefully now, determined to catch him in the act if he was going to reveal his true heart, but Trume held a surprisingly firm impassiveness. He did not express any discontent with Blaine's silent skepticism, his left forefinger smoothing absentmindedly over his pencil. At last, he set the pencil down and looked blankly at Blaine in an almost convincing attempt at mock-disbelief, his blonde hair shading his eyes somewhat. Blaine recognized the tactic from his father, a device that could easily fool incautious eyes into believing that the person's intentions were completely honest.

"Why are you so interested?" he asked, infusing just the right amount of haughty incredulity into his tone that Blaine would have felt ashamed if he did not know better about Trume. There was such certainty, such calmness to his voice that even though Blaine had his facts right, he still struggled to find the flaw in his voice, the give.

He's dangerous, Blaine thought, tucking the note away for later contemplation.

"I'm interested because I know you're involved," Blaine said bluntly.

Trume's eyes darkened a little, not with guilt, but anger. "So is this your petty vengeance on him for upsetting you? Trying to take it out on the one person who understands him?"

"So you do understand him."

Trume's face was stony. "Yes," he said, and nothing more.

Blaine hummed to express his own doubtfulness before continuing. "You wouldn't, perhaps, know what he hoped to achieve by digging up my past, would you?"

It had been hard mentioning the Sadie Hawkins dance in any context for so long that Blaine was amazed at how simply he said the words now. It had been on his mind a lot lately, he admitted silently, especially since Sebastian had brought it up. Perhaps that had desensitized him somewhat to it.

His left side flared with phantom pain, reminding him that not every effect of the Sadie Hawkins dance was completely erased.

"If you're interested in him, just talk to him," Trume said in a bored voice, returning to his paperwork. "Don't involve me."

That last seemed like a true sentiment, at least. Blaine wondered if there was friction between Trume and Sebastian lately: perhaps Sebastian had overstepped and agitated Trume somehow.

"I'm not interested in him," Blaine said clearly. "I just want to know why you're helping him out."

"He's a Warbler," Trume said, as though every argument could be defeated with such well-rounded words.

"I was a Warbler, too," Blaine pointed out.

"Well then, that's your problem. You shouldn't have left if you can't deal with the repercussions." He said it all without looking up, calm interest on his face as he wrote. "If you want to bother someone, pick someone who's not being productive. I need to finish this."

A clearer dismissal would have been redundant. Blaine stood up, shaking his head at Trume.

"You're all victim to him," he said in a musing tone.

"Victim to whom?" a drawling voice asked.

Blaine almost smiled. "Hello, Sebastian," he said softly. "Just the person I wanted to see."


	31. Chapter 31

Senior Warbler Blaine Anderson, the floor is yours.

Blaine allowed himself a small, private smile as he turned to face Sebastian. He had known Wes and David for almost three years, but despite his involvement with the Warblers, he had never been given the prestigious title of Senior Warbler due to his early departure. There was something deeply satisfactory about it now, finally being considered among the highest-ranking crowd. Trume, for all his apparent sway with the Warblers, would never be considered a Senior Warbler: it belonged to the few that had been in the group for three years or more. Even if he was the only one who could enjoy the appraisal, Blaine felt somewhat bolstered.

"I was just talking with your friend here," he said in a mock light tone. "He claims that he doesn't know you any more than the rest of us."

Sebastian smiled unpleasantly. "He doesn't," he said. There was such certainty in his tone that Blaine would have doubted his own facts if he didn't know better. He held firm.

"Well, that's unfortunate, since I do think he knows you more than that." Blaine took two steps forward, deliberately setting himself between the two. "So either I have my facts wrong," he said, in a tone that invited contradiction, "or you do."

Instead of looking alarmed, Sebastian looked completely unruffled, his gaze calm and calculating. "Why does it concern you?" he asked at last. Casual, disinterested. According to Sebastian's tone, they were discussing the weather or something equally menial (since, of course, in November in Ohio, temperatures piqued at forty and stayed resoundingly frigid the rest of the time). According to his eyes, however, he was intrigued or at least mildly curious.

Blaine latched onto that and baited it. "Why shouldn't it concern me?" he retorted, throwing the ball back in Sebastian's court. "As the lead Warbler, having an insider's link to the council would be a little disconcerting, don't you think? Just a little too powerful?"

Sebastian shook his head in a mock-morose way and stepped forward, turning the diplomatic stand-off into a more invasive conversation, narrowly skimming the margin of 'friendly debate' to 'uncomfortably close.' "That's interesting, Blaine," he said, so softly Blaine knew that Trume would have to lip-read -- which was possible, given Sebastian's height and the way that he was still partially facing Trume -- to hear them. Blaine barely repressed the urge to step aside and put a more appropriate distance between them. If Sebastian was afraid of saying this in Trume's hearing, it was probably important in some way or another.

"Especially considering," Sebastian said, his smirk nearly overtaking his next words, "how close you were to all three of the previous council members."

"You do realize that I had close relations with all the Warblers, right?" Blaine reminded. He had braced himself for that argument when he first confronted Trume; he was not about to be intimidated by it now that Sebastian had brought it up. "I was friends with not just the head councilor but with everyone."

Sebastian's laugh was soft. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you'd screwed all of them."

Blaine barely repressed the urge to shove him. Knowing Sebastian, he would find a way to deflect a fight and make it look compromising, which was definitely not Blaine's aim with this whole conversation. He glanced at the wall to calm himself -- the familiarity of the Warblers' hall had always held an appeal to him, even on a purely aesthetic level -- before meeting Sebastian's gaze. Which, unfortunately, meant he did have to look up, since Sebastian was now close enough that it was either that or stare at his collarbone. Blaine inwardly scowled at the compromise.

"Friends don't have sex with each other to stay friends," Blaine reminded.

"You poor, uneducated prude. Never heard of 'friends with benefits'? Perfect excuse to ditch the overbearing beau and have a little fun." He leaned forward, just a little, and added loftily, "It's great stress relief, too."

Blaine rolled his eyes in disgust and stepped back a little, regardless of what interpretation Sebastian would make of the gesture. The only audience they had was Trume, and Blaine knew that he would side with Sebastian no matter what Blaine did. He disliked the feeling of Sebastian being that close to him, his long, lean torso balanced just so that Blaine could only retreat or bend slightly to compensate. Retreat was a largely more appealing option given the choices.

"You do realize you're the source of about half my stress right now, right?" Blaine reminded. Sebastian was like an egocentric child: absolutely no perception of how his choices affected others.

Sebastian shifted so that his weight was once more leaning towards Blaine, pressing against invisible barriers, grating against personal space. "Sorry, babe, but you brought it on yourself."

"I brought this on myself." Blaine's voice was laced with so much incredulity that Sebastian would have been blind to miss it.

Sebastian smiled and edged forward, just a shifting of his left foot that put him inside unspoken 'personal space.'

"Of course you did," he said, and now he was definitely ignoring Trume. "If you had just given in, I wouldn't have done anything. That would have made you boring anyway," he added with a shrug. "So I'm glad it worked out this way."

"You're proud you told them about the Sadie Hawkins Dance." Blaine's voice held no inflection.

"Babe, don't be naÃ¯ve. Everyone has something dark in his past. Yours was just a little more gory than most. Adds to the dramatic flare, don't you think?"

Blaine's jaw clenched against the words he wanted to shout. Reasonable. He had to stay reasonable, or the argument would be null and void, because Sebastian could just claim he had a 'tantrum' and rule out everything else therein.

Who are you trying to impress?

No one. Everyone.

Blaine pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present situation. Trume was still sitting behind the council's desk, apparently engrossed in his reading. Blaine could tell from the way his head was tilted in their direction that he was not nearly as interested as he pretended to be.

Listen in all you want, Trume.

"It's not dramatic flare when it's real," Blaine pointed out.

"That just makes it more dramatic, babe," Sebastian said as though Blaine was being deliberately slow.

Blaine made the mistake of reaching out to shove him. Sebastian's hands were there in an instant, smoothly wrapping around his wrists, preventing both advance and retreat. Blaine gave them a single hard jerk to test it anyway and was disappointed when Sebastian's grip remained unrelenting. "Let me go," he ordered, voice low.

"Look at you," Sebastian practically crooned. "So angry."

Blaine snarled. "It's a turn on for you, isn't it?"

Sebastian laughed, not even bothering to keep it soft or menacing. "So you're not a complete virgin. Here I thought I'd have to spell it all out for you."

Blaine scowled and jerked at his arms. Sebastian smiled and trailed his fingers deliberately up Blaine's forearms, feeling at the muscle. "Not bad," he pronounced, letting him go.

Narrowly resisting the urge to punch him, Blaine looked at Trume, who was still regarding them with placid eyes. With a sigh, Blaine asked, "Why don't we talk in private?"

"I like an audience," Sebastian retorted lightly.

Blaine raised his eyebrows and waited. There was a moment of consideration before Sebastian turned wordlessly on his heel and started walking. Blaine scowled at his back, aware of Trume's diverted gaze on them, before hurrying so that he would not trail behind.

"You have somewhere in mind?" he asked, deliberately nonchalant.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Of course I do, babe."

Blaine scowled at the pet name and did his best to ignore its implication. After the insanity of disclosing his personal information to Jacob Ben Israel, he was certain that Sebastian was over with trying to endear himself to him. He definitely had no interest in a conventional relationship: at best, Blaine thought, he wanted to get into his pants.

I need to be careful around him, Blaine's logical side cautioned. I can't underestimate him just because he acts like it's all fun.

They walked through the meandering hallways until they reached the door to a basement. Blaine was unfamiliar with that portion of the school and tensed reflexively, loathe to follow Sebastian anywhere that he did not know. "Relax," Sebastian said, his amusement plain, as he walked briskly down the steps.

Blaine tensed and gingerly followed. He wanted to talk to Sebastian, but letting the other boy set his own terms was an idea he was still not happy to accept. Stepping down into the semi-lit darkness, he blinked at Sebastian's back as he kept walking. "Where are you going?" he asked warily.

Sebastian didn't bother answer. Mentally berating himself for agreeing to follow Sebastian, Blaine sauntered after him, keeping the door behind him in sight. He cast wary glances back at it as they ventured deeper and deeper down the poorly lit hallway. It reminded Blaine vaguely of the woodshop storage rooms back at Hawthorne. Of course, there were stacks of wood and machinery interspersed there, whereas here there was nothing more than the clean linoleum floor beneath their feet and the abrasive silence around them.

Just when Blaine was about to forgo any conversation and turn around, the hallway swerved sharply to the left and they were standing in what looked eerily like an old library. Judging by the empty shelves and dusty, vacant seats, it had not been used for some time. Curious about how it had come to be here, Blaine stepped forward without thinking, glancing at the towering shelves in the darkness. He had no idea how Sebastian knew this was here -- it was certainly not in the normal route anyone would take when going to classes, and Blaine was fairly sure there were no classes beyond the hallway that could be accessed more easily using the tunnel -- but he had, and now that they were there the silence seemed profound.

"So what do you want to talk about?" Sebastian asked, casually flicking on the lights overhead so that the worn shelves were thrown in greater relief. It was still not the bright, clean lighting above, casting odd shadows on everything and distorting the general proportions of the room. Blaine was not sure if he was more or less disconcerted by the change. He selected one of the solid-looking chairs and sat delicately on the edge, Sebastian mirroring him in a chair opposite his. They were close, conspiratorial, and Blaine shuddered to think what it would look like if someone came down here and found them like this.

We're so far out of the way, he calmed his conscience, no one would come across us.

Murphy's law, his logical side retorted gravely.

Blaine winced. There was definitely the possibility that someone would stumble across this route just because Blaine did not want him to, but he hoped that fate would be more obliging this time around. Besides, if we were in a more public place alone, it would probably stir even more rumors, and I'm tired of letting Trume hear everything.

Sebastian waited patiently for his answer, his posture languid, almost lion-like, with one hand casually resting against the arm of the chair. His eyes were surprisingly bright in the dark, their opaque intensity unusual. Brown opal came to mind, looking at them. Blaine shook his head fiercely to clear such thoughts. It was bad enough that he had the Karofsky situation back in Lima, worse that he couldn't even bring himself to talk to Kurt right now. The thought that he could still find anything even mildly interesting about Sebastian disgusted him. If Sebastian looked exactly as Blaine perceived him as a person, he certainly wouldn't have that regal, predatory air about him.

You can't choose your enemies, he reminded himself silently, taking a breath.

"What do you want from me?" he asked at last, saying every word slowly and clearly. He did not want Sebastian to mistake it as an invitation. A slow smile crossed Sebastian's face.

"You really don't get it, do you?" he countered, steepling his fingers. Again, that shifting, although this time it was more relaxed, leaning back rather than forward, and his entire demeanor seemed more friendly in return. "I don't want to be boyfriends," he said, enunciating his words so that Blaine was the one who would now be a fool not to understand them. "I don't even want to be friends. I just want to be with you."

It amazed Blaine how much the speaker could change the meaning of a few simple words. If Kurt had said it, he would have believed him in a heartbeat, the sincerity so obvious it would have been impossible to miss. Somehow Sebastian managed to turn the innocent phrase -- I just want to be with you -- into something vile, a worthless relationship that had no deeper meaning whatsoever.

Why does your relationship with Kurt have to have a deeper meaning? Blaine's irrational side wondered. He had, as he had told Kurt, never had a boyfriend before: Luke was the closest he had ever come, and they had never even kissed. It was strangely overwhelming, the sudden consideration that he could find someone else if he wanted to. It wasn't like he and Kurt were bound to their relationship: they could break it off. The only thing binding them to it was their own words.

We don't have any obligation to each other.

Plenty of high school couples broke up, and it was only an exceptional few that became 'high school sweethearts.' Maybe it would even be good for them, to date some other guys and see if they were really right for each other. After all, Blaine might find someone he liked even more than Kurt, and vice-versa. It made his heart ache to consider, but his mind was intrigued enough that he followed the line of thought regardless, Sebastian's pensive gaze on him all the while.

It's not like you're only going to date one person ever.

The thought made him shiver, because it implied that there would be a time when he and Kurt wouldn't be together. And while it had felt briefly empowering to know that he could sever the relationship now if he wanted to, he knew that he had no intention of doing so. He hated the thought that Kurt would end it, especially since he couldn't know if it was possible to repair afterwards.

I don't want to break up with him permanently.

I don't want to break up with him at all.

Granted, he was young and naïve and all other things high school seniors were, but he wasn't about to throw in the towel just because statistically it was next to impossible.

Sebastian was still watching him with a patient expression, hands folded, predatory smile still in place.

"I don't want to be with you," Blaine said.

Sebastian inclined his head slightly. "Not yet," he reminded, as though speaking to an unruly child.

Blaine snarled a little at the analogy. "Not ever," he corrected empathetically. "Even if you hadn't been consistently a jerk to me and my boyfriend--" it was good to say that, too, my boyfriend, "--I still wouldn't want you. You overstepped, Sebastian. You crossed boundaries way too soon and without my permission, and I don't want to be with you. Ever."

Sebastian chuckled, folding his hands. "Do you really think you're going to stay with him forever?" he asked, infusing enough disbelief in his voice that it questioned Blaine's sanity to answer incorrectly.

"It doesn't matter if I'm with Kurt forever or not," Blaine said, "what matters is that I'm never going to be with you."

"Listen," Sebastian said, standing so suddenly the transition between sitting and standing was virtually nonexistent, "if you want to be all chaste and noble now, fine." He ambled forward slowly. Blaine stood up as well, his arms folded over his chest. Sebastian ignored that and kept walking until he was less than two feet away, his presence overpowering, invasive. "However," he continued, his voice lower and softer than before, "you should know that you're wasting our time. And I don't appreciate having my time wasted."

"You should know," Blaine said, his voice just as low and soft, "that I'm sick of you harassing me. Find someone else, Sebastian. I'm not interested."

"Not interested?" Sebastian taunted, leaning forward. Blaine sidestepped him so that there was another foot of space between them, wary and tense. He would run if he had to; despite his height, he was confident he could outrun Sebastian, even though the other boy had longer legs.

"You're so skittish," Sebastian sighed, shaking his head. "All confident in the public, but look at you now. The thought of me being closer than--" and he sidled closer to demonstrate his point before Blaine could retreat, "--a few inches practically terrifies you."

"You've overstepped before," Blaine reminded, now fully prepared to run if he had to. "I don't trust you."

A slow, unpleasant smile crossed Sebastian's face. Blaine mistrusted it even before he knew what he would say next.

"You shouldn't," was all Sebastian said.

* * *

Kurt wondered if he would ever get a response to his latest text. He had unsuccessfully attempted to call Blaine for nearly three hours, and without a single word on the latter's part, he was beginning to wonder if 'later' really meant 'never.' It was entirely possible -- Blaine wasn't above holding grudges -- but it still hurt to consider pretending that he and Blaine weren't boyfriends for any longer. He already missed Blaine, which he knew was pathetic and also couldn't help.

I miss you, he thought, staring at his motionless phone.

What do I have to do?

He looked at the door as Finn knocked on the doorjamb. "You okay, dude?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck in his usual 'awkward brotherly conversations' way.

Kurt shrugged. He couldn't honestly nod or shake his head, so he settled for the neutral medium.

"Rachel noticed," Finn added. Kurt closed his eyes.

"I don't need to know," he pointed out quietly.

Finn was silent for a moment. "He's being stupid," he said.

"Finn--"

"Don't," Finn warned. Kurt closed his mouth. For several long moments, they were quiet, Finn leaning against the door, before he shook his head. "Do you remember when Rachel and I were fighting? How she was really pissed at me?"

Kurt nodded. There were plenty of times that had happened, but he was fairly sure he knew which particular time that Finn was referring to.

"She was wrong, Kurt. She had to figure it out and apologize. Blaine's wrong. He has to figure it out and apologize."

"I was too pushy," Kurt pointed out.

"He overreacted," Finn retorted.

Another pause.

"So I should just wait," Kurt deduced at last.

Finn shrugged, then nodded. "Yeah. He'll come around." There was a certainty in his voice that Kurt tried to let reassure him.

Sighing, Kurt stood up from his vanity and pocketed his phone.

"Where are you going?" Finn asked, surprised.

"I need girl time," he said simply.

* * *

"Still fighting?" Mercedes asked sympathetically, patting his shoulder.

Kurt shrugged, his feet crossed in the air as he lied on his stomach, flipping through the Vogue magazine absently. "I don't even know what we are anymore. Fighting, not speaking. . . ." He shrugged. "It's complicated."

"He'll come around," Mercedes said, with exactly the same confidence in her tone that Finn had shown.

Kurt still made a dubious sound in his throat as he flipped the page. "I appreciate the vote of confidence," he said aloud, "but I haven't heard from him at all. Shouldn't he have at least said something?"

"Kurt, I hate to tell you this, but Blaine's a guy, and guys are stupid when it comes to make-ups." Lifting his eyebrows, intrigued by the fact that she had categorized him as an 'honorary girl' for the moment, Kurt looked up at her. "It might be a few days," she said apologetically, "but he'll catch on. Eventually. You've just got to be patient for now."

Kurt sighed and rested his head on his folded hands, letting his feet flop back on top of the bed. "I don't want to be patient," he admitted, knowing that he sounded childish and petty and not caring in the slightest.

Mercedes nodded sympathetically. "I know. But we've got to do things we don't want to, and this is one of them. You give him a piece of your mind when he comes back, of course," she added.

"I don't want yell at him. . . ."

"Boo, he needs to know that he screwed up."

"He didn't do anything," Kurt muttered.

Mercedes knelt in front of them so their eyes were level. "Boo, this would be a lot easier if you would say what happened." She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to speak. "Don't say it's complicated. I'll have Marcus sit on you."

Kurt winced at the thought, inwardly struggling to put the whole thing into words. "I saw Blaine and Karofsky talking in the hall," he admitted at last.

Mercedes frowned. "Why was he talking with Karofsky?"

"That's what I was wondering," Kurt said, bolstered by her understanding. "I mean, he chased me out of McKinley and almost attacked Blaine before--"

"Wait, what?"

"At the Night of Neglect concert," Kurt said dismissively. She gave him a pointed look. He sighed and elaborated. "We ran into him before the concert. Insults were dished, Blaine called him out and shoved him, and Santana intervened before Karofsky could reciprocate."

Mercedes was silent for a long time. "Boo, you need to tell us these things," she said at last.

"Nothing happened," Kurt protested.

"Karofsky was still threatening you guys, even after you transferred. That matters."

"Well, nothing came of it," Kurt said, shaking his head. "Anyway," he added, hoping to return to the present issue rather than debating the merits of attacking a problem that had come and gone. "Karofsky started to walk away, but Blaine followed him, and I didn't see either of them until glee club."

Mercedes looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows, waiting.

"Blaine showed up," he added unnecessarily, "but he didn't want to say what they'd been talking about, and I -- I just kept pushing him, and then he was mad at me and I was angry at him and it just all sort of imploded." He made a vague gesture with one hand.

"You just need to wait, boo," Mercedes said, looking at him seriously. "I think he's really upset, but you can't just push him if he's not even trying. He needs to open up a little, too, if you're going to fix anything. So don't worry too much if he's being unresponsive right now."

Kurt sighed. Easy for her to say -- Marcus was at his dad's repair shop right now wrapping up his shift and would be back soon. She could kiss and cuddle and hang out with him all she wanted, whereas he had to wonder what Blaine was doing, whether he would break up with him or not, whether he was okay or not.

The latter disturbed him the most, even more so than the prospect of losing Blaine as a boyfriend. He could survive that, yes; it would be painful and extremely unpleasant, but he could survive.

Blaine being unhappy -- he couldn't survive that. Not for long.

Kurt rested his head on his palms and sighed, watching as Mercedes popped in a movie before lying down companionably beside him. "It'll be okay," she assured.

He stared at the ceiling instead of answering. I hope.

* * *

Blaine did not want to think about the encounter with Sebastian. What else is he going to do? he wondered, half-exasperated, half-concerned. Sebastian seemed like the person that would act first, think later, and his cryptic advice not to trust him only further agitated Blaine's nerves. He was thus in a rather formidable mood as he stepped through the threshold of the Dalton Academy main entrance into the frigid, November night air.

He nearly had an aneurysm at the sight of Dave Karofsky.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, once stupid surprise and racing heart had given way to weary curiosity.

Karofsky looked over his shoulder before he answered, which Blaine thought was rather strange. "I, uh, need to talk to you," he said.

Blaine nearly groaned at the word choice but he gestured with a hand and they started walking. With Karofsky's impressive size and Blaine's comparatively diminutive stature, they made quite a pair.

"What happened now?" Blaine asked. He had walked to Dalton this time around, wanting an excuse to think about what he needed to say. It had been much warmer when he set out at three in the afternoon, he noted sourly, than it was now at nearly seven o'clock at night.

Karofsky huffed. "Who said anything happened?" he asked, automatically defensive.

Blaine gave him a look and he shook his head in a frustrated way.

"What the hell's going on with you and Hummel?" he asked at last.

Blaine blinked in surprise, wrong-footed and momentarily dazed by the unexpected question. "What?"

Karofsky looked around again as though wondering if someone was watching. "You. Hummel. Acting all pissy around one another."

Blaine opened his mouth to say something to that, before Karofsky blurted, "It was me, wasn't it?" There was no color in his voice, only certainty.

Blaine nodded once warily.

With a strangled curse, Karofsky shook his head. "I'm so effing sick of being involved with you two," he said at last, speaking almost feverishly. Blaine paused, frowning, and turned to look at him. It was already fairly dark out, making his expression difficult to read. "I'm tired of--" He shook his head, cutting himself off.

"What's going on?" Blaine asked, wanting to know what it was and now somewhat concerned by Karofsky's almost jerky movements.

Karofsky breathed out raggedly through his mouth. "I think someone knows," he said, so softly he was barely speaking the words. "Someone knows I'm gay."

Blaine froze. "Someone outed you?"

Karofsky jerked his head once sharply.

Blaine's stomach plummeted as his phone vibrated.

Son of a bitch -- he thought fiercely.

Have fun, babe. - Sebastian.

* * *

Sebastian outed Karofsky.

Kurt's breath froze in his lungs.

He had bolted upright in surprise when his phone vibrated, rubbing his eyes blearily as he tried to register what ungodly hour of the morning it was. (Three. Lovely.) Doing his best to wake up, he had fumbled his phone out of his pocket and squinted past the brightness of the screen, missing the name of the sender as he hit the accept button.

Three words. That was all.

Three words changed everything.

Sebastian outed Karofsky.

Rage was a mild term to describe what Kurt felt at that moment. Wrath came closer.

Outing was forbidden territory, an eighth deadly sin.

Kurt didn't have to like Karofsky to be affected, or even hate Sebastian beforehand to loathe him now.

The fact that he had outed someone made him want to kill him.

I'm coming over, he wrote, already on his feet and pulling on his jacket.

The response was almost as immediate. Don't.

I'm on my way.

Don't, Kurt.

Kurt hesitated before turning on the ignition. Sorry.

He could almost hear Blaine's ragged exhale. Just don't use the front door.

Heart racing, wondering what this would all mean, Kurt drove to Westerville at three in the morning.

Some things were just more important than curfew.

* * *

"What's going on?" Kurt whispered as soon as Blaine appeared at the back door, his expression no more rested than it had been in glee club that morning. He was probably running on the last vestiges of his energy by now, but there was a certain brightness to his eyes that told Kurt he wasn't about to fall asleep now. Physical exhaustion wasn't enough to overcome that sort of rage.

"Sebastian," was all Blaine said, grabbing his arm and ushering him inside. Kurt followed wordlessly, feeling like an intruder, looking around the darkened Anderson living room as they crept upstairs. Before he knew it, Blaine was shutting the door behind him and sitting heavily down on his bed, resting his head in his hands.

"Your parents . . . ?"

Blaine shook his head dismissively. "Don't worry."

So Brian was out and only Emily was home, then. Kurt nodded and shrugged out of his coat before sitting next to Blaine, putting his hand on his back and rubbing in slow circles.

"Talk to me," he murmured, still keeping his voice low. It was dark and way too early in the morning to be awake, so it seemed only natural to talk quietly.

Blaine shook his head again, but he spoke anyway.

"This is my fault."

His voice was low and utterly devoid of emotion.

"No, it's not," Kurt said firmly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "It's Sebastian's."

"He wouldn't have gone after Karofsky if I wasn't talking with him," Blaine rasped.

Silence. Kurt's hand continued to draw absent circles over his back, broad, soothing.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I shouldn't have asked. It wasn't any of my business."

Blaine let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "It doesn't even matter now. Everyone's going to know, and he's not ready and--" He shook his head a third time, fingers tightening in his hair. "I'm going to kill him," he said at last, his voice deeper and more serious than Kurt had ever heard it. For one second, he was genuinely convinced Blaine would murder Sebastian, damn the consequences.

But his shoulders were trembling, fracture tremors that racked his entire frame, and Kurt knew that the cold-blood was only a façade for the pain, exhaustion, and frustration he was really feeling.

He tugged Blaine around so that they were molded against each other, Blaine's forehead pressed against his shoulder and his resting against the side of Blaine's head. Slowly, Blaine's fingers came around so that they were gripping the back of Kurt's shirt instead, fisting it. For once, Kurt didn't even care if he was ruining his outfit, just held him and rubbed his back, weathering the storm of this is too much, I can't do this, and I don't want to deal with this anymore silently.

All the while, his heart ached with the longing to take away Blaine's burden.

You can, a small voice whispered, as he felt Blaine's weight becoming heavier against him, his breaths more even. Sebastian's just one person.

Do something about this.

I will, Kurt vowed silently, gripping the back of Blaine's shirt tightly in return. I swear I will.

* * *

". . . Mom, he's fine, we didn't do anything." The tired voice came from somewhere just to his left, Kurt noted blearily, burying his face in the warm pillow underneath his cheek.

"Are you sure?" There was an uncertain edge to that voice.

"Positive." Then, with a sigh: "You're going to be late for work."

"I just . . . I just want to make sure you're okay." Said even more quietly than before. Kurt had to strain his ears to hear it, even more so to hear the soft sigh that came next.

"I appreciate the sentiment. I'll get through this. You just take care of work, okay?"

"You'll be all right, won't you, Blaine?"

A long, long pause. "Yeah. I will. Bye, Mom."

"Bye, sweetie."

There was another long pause, during which shuffling feet could be heard and someone stepping downstairs lightly. Kurt distantly heard the front door open and shut before there was silence once more.

Cracking an eye open carefully, Kurt rolled onto his stomach, feigning sleep now more than actually experiencing it, and watched as Blaine dragged his hands through his hair, his expression deeply harassed. He was still shaking a little, Kurt realized, although that could have been a result of his ragged breathing. Wanting to get up and comfort him, Kurt waited instead, some unknown instinct commanding him not to move.

He felt the bed dip slightly beside him as a weight settled on it and hastily shut his eye. He hoped that Blaine hadn't noticed -- he didn't seem to have -- and listened to his shallow breathing for a long time before the weight lifted again and Blaine padded out of the room wordlessly. He thought he heard the sounds of a shower moment later.

Sighing to himself, Kurt rolled gingerly onto his back and sat up, stretching his arms behind himself as he did so. Somehow, what had seemed so simple and obvious in the blanket of deep night seemed much harder to confront in the bright, almost overwhelming clarity of daylight. He wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend the entire fight with Blaine had ever happened, regardless of what Finn or Mercedes thought about apologies. (And really, since when did he listen to Finn about romantic advice?)

He knew that he couldn't do that, however, no matter how much he wanted to, so he waited and mustered up the courage to push the covers back, sliding out of the bed and surveying the room.

Besides the bed itself, which was obviously slept-in, the room was untouched, virtually unchanged since the last time Kurt had seen it. There was a new grimness to the silence around them, however, a new tension that hadn't existed the time when Kurt had come over despairing about Finn and how he was supposed to handle that. He wrapped his arms around his stomach lightly, craving some sort of comfort away from the silent hostility around him.

How does Blaine live here?

Not well, obviously. From the many times Blaine had invited Kurt over to his dorm room at Dalton, he had seen how Blaine quickly assimilated his room to reflect whatever present mood he was in. There was never a dull thing about Blaine Anderson's room, and while Kurt thought some of his trends were outright ridiculous, Blaine always insisted that he understood what they meant and he liked things that way. At his own house, however, Blaine was scrupulously neat. There was not a single touch of 'Blaine' anywhere here, all just the basic necessities for a room that could have belonged to anyone.

"Oh. Hey."

Speaking of Blaine. Kurt tilted his head at him and winced involuntarily. Blaine didn't look like he'd slept at all, with almost visible shadows around his eyes as he finished towel-drying his hair. His dark blue shirt almost clung to him, and for the first time Kurt noticed that he'd lost weight. Not a substantial amount, but enough that he felt terrible.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, sitting beside him and frowning, as though Kurt's happiness was the only issue. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they had been fighting only a couple of days ago, instead wearing a passive, concerned look that was not very Blaine-like at all. It disconcerted Kurt how much he seemed to have changed with the disconnect; he ached to rewind the clock and stop that stupid argument from ever happening. Nothing was worth this. Blaine being unhappy was practically capital punishment.

In answer to Blaine's question, he reached out slowly with one hand and, when Blaine didn't flinch, gently touched the skin underneath his left eye. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

Blaine paused a moment. "A little," he admitted. "Not much."

"You're going to get sick if you keep pushing yourself like this," Kurt said, shaking his head.

Blaine shrugged and looked away, effectively moving his face away from Kurt's fingers once more. They lingered a moment in mid-air before he dropped them lightly back to his side.

"I'll be fine," Blaine answered mechanically.

"You're not sleeping, you've lost weight -- don't even try and deny it, Blaine," he added, trailing his fingers delicately along Blaine's rib cage. It wasn't prominent or anything, but he hated the thought that Blaine could ever be so stressed out he wasn't even eating properly. "You need to slow down."

Blaine closed his eyes and let out a breathless chuckle. "You'd think after seven weeks of down time I'd never have to worry about free time again."

"Those seven weeks didn't count," Kurt reminded. "You were still recovering from a completely separate issue."

"Bletcher. Karofsky. Sebastian. My dad. Maybe I just need to stay away from guys in general," Blaine mused.

Kurt cautiously stroked his fingers down Blaine's upper arm, building up a rhythm when Blaine didn't protest or shy away. "Blaine, don't . . . don't start generalizing everyone because of a few terrible people."

Blaine sat in silence for several long moments before turning dull brown eyes on him. "I'm supposed to be mad at you, too, you know," he said without heat.

"Why?" Kurt asked softly.

Blaine gave another laugh. "I don't know," he said, rubbing his forehead. "Ugh, I have a headache."

"We're not doing anything special today," Kurt reminded gently. "You should lay down for a bit. Relax. You're pushing yourself way too hard, Blaine, and you can't take all of this on at once."

The scary thing was that Blaine simply nodded and laid down, not even bothering with some argument that he needed to do something. Kurt hesitated a moment before laying on his side beside him, watching Blaine's face carefully.

A long time passed in silence. Then Blaine shifted over so his face was pressed against Kurt's shoulder and stayed there, Kurt wrapping an arm around his back to pull him closer.

"We'll work through this," he promised, pressing a kiss to Blaine's damp curls. "You and me. We're unstoppable, remember?" he teased lightly. Blaine sighed and shrugged a little. "We haven't even reached the end of the semester, Blaine. It'll be okay. We have plenty of time to figure things out. I'm not going to just leave you alone here to wallow in misery." He gave Blaine a squeeze to prove it. After a moment, Blaine squeezed back.

"Sounds good," he whispered.

"First order of business: sleep and a hot meal. Or a lot of hot meals. I've cooked for Finn at Thanksgiving before, you know."

"Mmm." Blaine made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"We'll figure this out," Kurt repeated in a soothing, self-assured voice as he placed another gentle kiss to the corner of Blaine's brow. "I promise, Blaine, we'll figure this out."

And for once, Kurt didn't bother worry about his clothes or his hair or what the people texting his phone were wondering.

He just held Blaine.


	32. Chapter 32

Brian Anderson was, by nature, a solitary creature. He preferred quiet settings where only he had to process fresh information, devour new challenges, and enhance his reputation. At heart, he was an introvert that interacted with the public only as need required. Emily was a highly suitable match for him because she demanded nothing that he wasn't willing to give; neither of them were romantic and both enjoyed mostly living separate lives.

They were reputable people, responsible individuals and diplomatic arguers. As long as nothing insurmountably abrasive entered their lives, they could handle the problems and spend the remaining time supporting each other in the best way they knew: silently, subtly, and scrupulously indirect. Neither of them claimed full responsibility for bringing in income, filling in those pleasantly scarce but sweet moments of time alone together; in short, they were equally responsible for the detached relationship they had.

For years, Brian considered his relationship with Emily to be almost perfect: they had their quarrels (what couple did not?) and occasionally could not find a happy medium to certain arguments, but overall he was happy that he had found a woman that was as undemanding yet respectable as Emily to marry.

They were not, Brian reflected, rubbing his forehead as he stared at the fresh stack of manila folders on his desk now, people considered to be parent material.

It had never occurred to him before Emily that he would ever want children. His father had died in a car wreck when he was four. His mother, crippled by grief, had passed away a few months later. Left in the care of his grandparents, Brian had grown up with the Anderson pride around him, the beautiful wealth of their family's legacy a stalwart defense he could use to counter the reality of being an orphan. While he had always wanted someone he could feel comfortable with, be it a girlfriend or a wife, he had never felt the need for childrenbefore Emily.

But it had steadily crept up over the years. Just as a side-note at first, a passing fancy that Emily had expressed more and more often as their peers decided to start families and the Andersons remained a small, quiet force of their own. At last, after nearly a decade of considerations and small arguments and speculations, they had decided that yes, they wanted children of their own.

Fate tried to stop them. The first attempt ended in a miscarriage, and for many long bitter days afterward, Brian wondered if Emily would ever speak to him again. She was consumed by her grief, spending days at a time sitting listlessly on the couch staring at her flat belly as though it had mortally wounded her.

Brian sat up with her for hours in his spare time, trying to console, awkward and uncertain around such unfamiliar territory. One night she had just turned to him and broken down, cried into his shoulder for so long that Brian had worried she would never stop. But she had been okay after that, had drawn herself up and stated that they could try again, would try again, and this time it would be okay.

So they had tried again.

What ensued had been the most terrifying, hectic, and sleepless nine months of Brian's life. He remembered the out-of-his-league feeling he experienced every time he saw Emily with a book in her hands just barely concealing the baby bump, the nauseating uncertainty about the whole process. They hadn't been buying a dog or fostering a kid: they had been having their own.

It had baffled and amazed and scared Brian all at once, how enormous the thing was, once they were fully committed to it. More than once, he hated to admit, he had spent sleepless nights wondering why he had not listened to fate's warning before and simply let the topic of children lie forever unapproached. It had been too late then to change anything, of course, not according to the moral way his grandparents had raised him. Once it's yours, it's yours, his grandfather would say. You can't just shirk that sort of responsibility.

Sighing, Brian gathered the manila folders together and tucked them away in his briefcase. He could deal with those later, when he wasn't so distracted by his own thoughts. Offering some half-hearted excuse to Penny, his secretary, about 'taking a break,' he left the office and walked out into the brisk November air.

The only part of the pregnancy he had actually enjoyed was how rich Emily seemed. Her smiles were broader and more genuine, her laughs heartier, and she just talked for so long that it had amazed Brian that it was the same quiet girl he had married so long ago.

She had all the weird cravings (more than once Brian had fled from the table with a hurried excuse about work), all the unpleasant morning sickness (again, Brian was no shining knight: he left for work early on those mornings, too), and all the bizarre mood changes that came with being pregnant (those were the most terrifying; he never knew how to react when she was suddenly angry and crying in the same sentence).

And yet all of the difficulties had been worth those moments when she would be soft and sweet and genuine, meaning every word when she said I want this. I want this so much.

Brian had almost convinced himself he wanted it, too, by the time the nine months were up. He had become used to seeing her belly rounded to accommodate the new weight, even if he never held the same 'new father' fascination with it. To him, it had just been extra weight, neither more boring nor alarming than any other aspect of her. He had figured out ways to manage all the strange quirks that came with her being with child. He had been ready -- or so he thought.

Complications. Brian had not understood the medical vernacular very much despite his experience as a lawyer. All he had understood was that Emily had survived the birth but would not survive another if they tried.

The news had frustrated him for some absurd reason. He had never planned for any children, but the prospect of being restricted to just one hadn't appealed to him. If they had wanted more, they should have been able to have more. But they couldn't, and that was that.

Maybe that was fate, too, Brian mused, tucking his hands into his pockets as he walked.

He couldn't imagine, looking back, what his life would have been like trying to deal with two kids, or three. That was one potential disaster averted, at least.

Still, looking back, Brian knew that he definitely had room for improvement. He understood basically how the process worked: taking care of a child, that was. Mostly Emily handled things, and by the time Brian arrived home from the office after a long day, the baby was asleep anyway. It had startled and frightened him when his son finally started wanting to be around him because he had no idea what he was supposed to do about it. Children weren't puppies: one couldn't put them behind a locked gate with a squeaky toy for a few hours and find them perfectly happy at the end of the day. They needed entertainment. And if there was one thing Brian did not know how to do, it was how to handle kids.

So he spent more time at work and encouraged his son to 'go to Mommy.' Emily adored the boy and had no problem spending time with him, still in the phase Brian considered the 'new mother high.' It was a beautiful excuse for a few years, until four-year-old Blaine insisted on being part of Brian's life. So he had agreed -- reluctantly -- to make an effort to spend at least an hour a day with his son.

It was wearing. For someone who lived on schedules, making room for his son in the midst of it all was the most difficult time table Brian had ever worked with. Usually, Brian would take a break mid-afternoon and use that time to fill his being-a-father quota. Blaine didn't seem to mind; he was fascinated with Brian's work, the business attire, the confident way he sat, everything. He chattered incessantly: if Brian could have recorded everything he said and reviewed it later on in normal time, he was certain it would have taken years. Maybe there was something in all of his expounding about the easy way to handle this. Maybe Brian should have paid more attention to it. But after exhaustive mornings, he was content to just sit out in the backyard and half-listen while Blaine talktalktalked.

As he went through the progressive stages of five, six, and seven, Blaine's chatter narrowed down to future careers. Every time Brian found time to sit with him (which was increasingly less frequent, as Emily finally stopped bothering him every day and dropped weekly reminders instead), he had a different occupation in mind. Astronaut, chef, doctor, pirate, president, cop, explorer, mountain climber, soldier, lawyer. The last Brian knew was solely on the list because he was a lawyer.

By the time Blaine reached eight, Brian could enroll him in camps and school took care of the remaining time. It worked out marvelously for him: he no longer felt guilty about not spending as much time with Blaine, and Emily, although somewhat morose at the absences at first, seemed to readjust comfortably to her old life. For a time, Brian mused, it was almost like they didn't have a son anymore.

Brian sat down on the nearest bench heavily, his knees aching. He knew, even while he was pleased and relieved by how neatly the situation had worked out, that he wasn't being a true father. He was scraping out with passing grades, not actually being a father. There was no job description, no daily quota to be met and no instruction manual for difficult cases. It was all come-what-may and taking things as they appeared.

Still, Brian couldn't reverse the clock. He couldn't cherish those simple, easy years where the most complicated thing about raising his son was making sure that he found an hour to sit with him and listen. He had to deal with the now, when Blaine was suddenly practically an adult (was an adult, Brian reminded himself; he was eighteen already) and about to leave for college with no intents of coming back.

Brian knew that Blaine wouldn't come back. It was all too clear from Blaine's behavior that as soon as Brian arranged the financial aspect of it, he would be gone. The worst part: Brian couldn't blame him. If their positions were reversed, he probably wouldn't even wait that long.

He's not waiting because of you, a cynical voice reminded Brian as he rubbed his knees slowly. He didn't know why they hurt nowadays more than they had in years previous; maybe it was all the stress, or simply lack of movement. Most days Brian stayed boxed up in his comfortably quiet world and ignored the rest until he walked home. There was one unavoidable fact, however, and that was the answer:He's waiting because of his boyfriend.

When Blaine had first told them at fourteen that he was gay, Brian had truly and honestly believed that fate was playing a horrible joke on him. Someone had possessed his son and told him to say that,just because it would ruin any chances of a simple life thereon. Gay people didn't have simple lives, they didn't prosper in society: they were shot down and scorned. Brian had heard just enough from the fringes of criticism to know that having a gay son was the equivalent of social suicide. There was simply no way in his mind that it could actually be happening, because the reality was terrible.

My son is gay.

But it was, and there was nothing Brian could do about it.

That wasn't to say that he didn't at least look, desperately, for weeks to see if there was any possibility he could grow out of it. Brian didn't know anything about homosexuality and what it entailed: all he knew was the outermost arguments about it, some claiming it was a 'choice,' others adamantly denying this possibility. Brian looked for hours at a time trying to find credible sources that could tell him there was some hope his son might decide that he wasn't actually gay, he was just experimenting or something. (People still did that, didn't they?)

Hours of fruitless research all provided him the same grim conclusion: Blaine was gay and, according to the masses, not about to change.

There was still a vacant hope, though, and so Brian was stupid enough to try and convince him that he would like girls if he just gave them a chance. Some people were late bloomers when it came to the whole relationship scheme, after all, and maybe Blaine was substituting a normal relationship for mistaken homosexuality. So Brian had tried, without openly denouncing his son's beliefs, to show him the better, brighter world out there for normal people.

Blaine hadn't listened. Brian knew, after the Chevy incident, that Blaine wasn't happy with him at all, that some important boundary had been crossed. Ever since then, it seemed, the tension in their relationship had only mounted until at last Brian had reached the point of total disconnect.

It had been agonizing, not knowing whether he should go to Blaine or not after the fire at McKinley. He was desperate to make some sort of statement, to do something that good fathers were supposed to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, so he let it be. And when Blaine's -- boyfriend came along to tell him off for standing on the sidelines without doing anything, Brian had snapped.

I don't know what to do about this. I don't want to deal with this.

But he wasn't a child, and he had a child of his own that needed taking care of, and the only thing Brian should have done had come and gone. He should have protected Blaine, and he hadn't, just like at the Sadie Hawkins dance.

That had been the worst night of Brian's life, arriving at the hospital frantically wondering what was going on. All he had been told was that his son and another sophomore had been assaulted after a dance by three other guys. Terrible images had played through his mind the entire drive to the hospital, his mind numb with the possibility that he could actually lose his son.

I didn't spend enough time with him. I wasn't a good father.

Heart pounding, he had arrived to the usual pandemonium at the ER and eventually sorted things out enough that he simply had to wait for the doctors to wrap up surgery to deal with some internal bleeding. It had been an agonizingly slow process with no distractions available to Brian, just the endless tread of other unfortunates passing in and out of the emergency waiting room.

Finally, they had let him back, and Brian had been completely at a loss what to do. All he could remember was seeing his son, his son, beaten and broken on a hospital bed, covered in machinery.

He hadn't wanted to repeat that. He couldn't repeat that. Even knowing that Blaine's injuries couldn't be as severe as they were then, he had just let the phone ring and ring and ring until at last they stopped calling.

Then he had hunched over his desk and sat for a long time with his head buried in his hands, unmoving.

That was the first moment he realized that there was something wrong with him. Having Blaine's boyfriend stop by a few days later to tell him as much was something that he knew he deserved, even if he responded scathingly to the accusations.

You're gay. He had let his venom show there, his bitter awareness of how much being gay had hurt Blaine, and seen only a cocky, untempered youth before him asserting that yes, he was gay.

He had never looked like Blaine had on the Sadie Hawkins night, covered in bruises and tubes. He was just a kid without any perspective on things, without any idea about how hard this was on Brian.

Don't, his cynical side warned, you were wrong, too.

Oh, he was wrong, and he was very, very wrong at that. It was like a nightmare revisited when the phone rang several weeks later. Brian had been in the kitchen at the time so he saw the way that Emily stiffened on the couch, her fingers pausing over the keys on her laptop. Brian closed his eyes and listened to the ringing, long and endless, until at last the silence consumed them.

Then he went back to his coffee and newspaper, because he honestly couldn't bring himself to answer. The soft sniffles from the other room would haunt him, he knew, how Emily suffered as well.

It had taken him three days to muster the courage to answer. He drove down to Lima and stepped slowly through the hospital doors, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself as he did so. He hated hospitals. The thought that his son was here, somewhere, nearly overwhelmed him, but the moment he arrived in the waiting room and saw Blaine's -- boyfriend sitting in one of the corners, he couldn't bring himself to stay. So he walked over to the receptionist, spoke briefly with her, picked up the clipboard, and signed his name.

Brian J. Anderson.

And then, later: I hereby grant permission to Kurt Hummel visitation rights during normal hours.

Then, barely keeping his fingers steady, he returned the clipboard to the polite young woman behind the counter and left before anyone could speak with him. He didn't know what he would say if they did, and he had been terrified to be caught, so he had fled.

He didn't know if Kurt had actually taken advantage of the invitation. He didn't even know why he had done it. Some inner parental urge in him, perhaps, that had forced him to have someone take care of his son.

It should have been you, his conscience whispered.

Brian pressed a narrow fist against his forehead. I know.

So here he was, entrenched in the wealth of failures he had reaped for himself and with absolutely no idea where to turn. He was supposed to be gone for the day at work -- as per usual -- but now that his thoughts were so distracted he doubted he would have been able to work if he tried.

Getting stiff-legged to his feet -- and oh how his knees ached -- he started walking down the street, purposefully keeping his stride even despite his desire to stagger.

What are you doing? a soft, mocking voice in him questioned. You can't fix this. You've lost your chance.

Brian swallowed inaudibly, determined, and argued silently, I have to try.

I have to try.


	33. Chapter 33

Should I tell him? Blaine wondered, his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against Kurt's clavicle, listening to his soft, slow breaths overhead. He was fairly certain at this point that Kurt was drowsing at the very least, the calm silence around them enough to lull an angry bull into a stupor, yet he couldn't silence the restless thoughts desperately trying to have his own undivided attention. He wanted to tell Kurt about Karofsky, to finally clear the air about that whole situation (and he could admit to himself that it hurt a little to know that Kurt didn't trust him enough to just trust him instead of having to press him for answers about what was going on). Karofsky's confidences were not his to share, however, even though he knew that Kurt would never tell someone else if Blaine told him not to.

Then again, Blaine mused sourly, feigning sleep to avoid facing the realities lining up before him, with Sebastian outing him, I doubt it will be a secret much longer.

His main concern was Karofsky's mental state. In the privacy of his own thoughts he could admit that he was happy to see Karofsky willing to seek out help even if he wasn't fully willing to accept it. He had listened to Blaine's advice to at least some degree. That meant something to him. The fact that Sebastian could just go out and flaunt the news like it was his latest sexual endeavor disgusted Blaine. Karofsky's sexuality was never something that Sebastian was permitted to just publicize, even if Blaine didn't support people staying in the closet their entire lives. He understood that some people needed that shelter if only because the environment they were in was too hostile to come out.

Of course, McKinley was not exactly the worst thing that could happen to a gay person, but it was not forgiving in the popularity department, either. Karofsky would not react well to the sudden demotion from top of the pyramid to bottom of the barrel. It was a difficult transition for anyone, and under such unpleasant circumstances, Blaine had no idea how he was going to react.

Maybe he'll go into denial, Blaine mused. It wasn't entirely impossible: with enough persistence, Karofsky could feasibly convince the school that the whole 'gay story' was just a rumor. The only witnesses to speak otherwise were Blaine, Kurt, and Santana, and while he knew that Kurt referred to the latter affectionately as 'Satan,' he also knew that she would not support an involuntary outing in any way, regardless of how mean she acted to the general public. Being lesbian herself probably had an impact on that opinion, but whatever kept her from wanting to out Karofsky was fine with Blaine.

Why are you so upset about this? his cynical side wondered. You have no responsibility to look after Karofsky in any way. He can handle this himself. He has plenty of friends.

That last, at least, Blaine could deny, since he knew from talking with Karofsky that if he had had any other people to turn to, he would have gone to them before seeking out his former victim's boyfriend. Blaine did have more experience and sympathy with his cause, but he was also a relative stranger to Karofsky, someone that he had loathed on principle for a time and ignored the rest. Resorting to asking Blaine for advice was a clear sign of his true isolation: Karofsky had no one else he could confide these issues in.

Which is why you shouldn't tell Kurt.

Blaine stared through half-lidded eyes at the smooth white fabric of Kurt's shirt, aching to just lift himself up and kiss him until he couldn't think anymore. That might finally quell all the complicated thoughts churning in his mind. Alcohol could do the same thing, but after the Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza, Blaine was in no mind to have a repeat performance. Especially if it means kissing Sebastian instead of Rachel this time around.

Wrinkling his nose at the thought, he nuzzled his way to Kurt's neck, craving the closeness more than air right then. He felt Kurt's fingers uncurl lazily against his back, stretching across his t-shirt so that his palms rested against Blaine's shoulder blades. He let out a soft, contented sigh as Blaine pressed light, almost chilled kisses against his throat, curling his fingers back into place. Blaine made an almost desperate sound in the back of his throat as he shuffled back a few inches before leaning forward and kissing Kurt's jaw, once, twice, incessantly. He couldn't stop himself, the mindless process eating away at some of the vacant guilt he felt for not telling Kurt, until at last a pair of hands came to rest gently on the front of his shoulders, pushing him slightly away.

He whined slightly in protest, nuzzling back underneath Kurt's chin, willing to be complacent if it meant Kurt wouldn't push him away.

"Stop," Kurt said softly, and Blaine obeyed instantly, rolling onto his side and sitting up, hunching his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around his abdomen. It ached emptily, his throat dry, his eyes suddenly burning for some unfathomable reason. He blinked hard and ducked his head, fending off the unwanted emotion.

Kurt's hand rested on his back. He made a thin noise and shifted away. "Don't," he said, voice mercifully steady. Kurt's hand retreated at once.

After a long time, during which Blaine swallowed almost convulsively and held himself together by a thread, Kurt's hand rested delicately on the back of his neck, right at the junction where it met his shoulders. "You're so tense," he observed. He traced his fingers lightly along his shoulder blades, making Blaine shiver. "You carry it all in your shoulders."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed, leaning back slightly as Kurt's fingers ran smoothly back and forth, back and forth. The motion was not really enough to relieve the tension built deep in his muscles, but it did calm his nerves somewhat so he could lie back down, Kurt rising as though they were balancing on an equilibrium. Blaine folded his arms reflexively beneath his head while Kurt's hands continued to gently explore the space between his shoulders, memorizing textures and nuances that occurred. Feeling almost soporific with satisfaction, Blaine nearly lurched aside as Kurt's fingers pressed down slightly at the same conjuncture between his neck and shoulders.

"Shh," Kurt soothed, going back to the tracing motion that Blaine enjoyed more even if it was only the equivalent of letting a half-awoken limb rest against an object instead of trying to properly wake it up. He let his eyes close, absorbing the motions, and barely noticed when he broke the silence, his words quiet and almost disjointed.

"He -- Karofsky -- he needs someone, Kurt. Not just . . . not like that . . . but as a friend or something. Mmmf." He resisted the urge to shift away as Kurt's fingers started kneading near the same point of tension, still light enough that he could almost fool himself that it wasn't actually painful. "I don't . . . I'm not his friend. Not really. I'm more like his -- ahhhh . . . more like his mentor." Kurt's fingers were skirting the area less lightly now, the tension more prevalent even while his motions remained smooth and steady.

"I want to help him," Blaine admitted, burying his face in his arms as Kurt's fingers kneaded near his neck, right on top of the point of tension now. "God, that's . . . ."

"Awful?" Kurt supplied delicately.

Blaine nodded and arched a little, reflexively trying to get away.

"Shh. It gets better. You should blame Quinn for this. She's the one that showed me how it works." Kurt continued to knead unrelentingly, Blaine gripping his forearms to stop himself from rolling over and pushing Kurt away. For one, the aggravated muscles now felt like they would kill him if he attempted to move, and he knew that his only choice was to trust Kurt to fix it or be in even more pain if he tried to avoid it now.

"Before she was the 'new Quinn,'" Kurt went on, his voice thankfully diverting Blaine's attention, "she'd been in a difficult position. Both of her parents were pretty strict. Her dad wanted her to be chaste until marriage, and I'm sure her mom felt the same way, but she was more sympathetic about the issue once it was clear that it wasn't just going to be willed away." His fingers dug in a little more and Blaine groaned, actively resisting the urge to stop Kurt from doing that because it damned well hurt. "Being a mother . . . it matured Quinn. For a while, she really wasn't as . . . bad as she is now. She was actually pretty nice, once she got over the fact that Puck was the father and that she would give the baby up for adoption."

"Mmmf. Kurt. That hurts," Blaine said, breathing out raggedly, unable to help himself as he fought every instinct to shimmy away.

"I know. I'm sorry." A long pause. Then, quietly: "She . . . she figured it out first that I couldn't handle being alone while my dad was in the hospital. That was after his heart attack," he added matter-of-factly. Blaine was silent, mostly trying to ignore the pain in his neck but also trying to listen to Kurt as well. "She just came over the one night, and I remember the entire house was pretty much dark and I was all alone and I just felt so . . . empty. Like there was no one else in the entire world." He shrugged, some of the pain finally seeming to ease as he continued. "I almost impaled her with a spoon. I was just sitting at the kitchen table staring at nothing and she . . . she just walked in. I told her to leave. She wouldn't. She said that it wasn't good for me to be so alone while I was hurting so much. I told her that I wasn't, and she didn't believe me."

Blaine could almost see the slight, wistful smile on Kurt's face. A little more of the tension abated in his neck, the urge to arch away gradually receding as well.

"I don't even know how it happened, but suddenly we were sitting on my couch and she had turned the heater on -- I was just completely out of it that night -- and she was just . . . rubbing my shoulders." He let his hands glide demonstratively over Blaine's shoulders, eliciting a soft hum, before focusing back on the main point of tension. "I . . . I don't know why she did it. I don't know why I accepted it, either, since we didn't exactly have the best history between us. But she just made me remember that I wasn't the only person in the world, that my dad would survive and that everything would be okay. I owe her a lot for that," he admitted quietly. "I don't know how I would have survived that otherwise."

Kurt's fingers dug into Blaine's neck suddenly, seeming to sink above and below the knot all at once. Blaine arched at the flare of white hot pain, a cry halfway to his lips before the tension abruptly evaporated. The transition from agony to relaxation was so quick that Blaine did not even consciously register flopping boneless back onto the mattress, Kurt's hand tracing idles circles across his shoulders, fanning outward. Soft lips pressed briefly against his neck before Kurt's attention returned to his shoulders, Blaine sighing deeply.

"That's amazing," he breathed, letting his head rest on his arms again, feeling the beautiful lack of tension to his bones. It was as though Kurt had unstrapped a boulder from his shoulders that he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying, a physical weight finally pulled away and making everything seem a lot more bearable.

"I was wrong to ask you about Karofsky," Kurt went on, his voice so soft Blaine had to strain in his languid state to decipher the words. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard for an answer, especially since it wasn't any of my business." Blaine wanted to protest but now that Kurt had relaxed that one point of tension it was as though every point was gone. Well, he amended, wincing slightly as Kurt's fingers found another, less substantial knot beneath his left shoulder, perhaps not completely gone. He groaned slightly in contentment as Kurt kneaded at that, thinking silently to himself, I have the best boyfriend. Ever.

"But I'm glad you're helping him out," Kurt said at last, his fingers never stopping in their motions.

Blaine allowed the silence to deepen and coalesce between them, feeling some of the uncertainty and unspoken tension over the past few days dissolving between them. The healing quiet was almost as relaxing as the knowledge that Kurt knew, and accepted, and understood why he had done it.

We can help Karofsky together, Blaine thought, amazed that he hadn't realized it before. Maybe he had been afraid Karofsky would outright reject it; maybe he was just afraid to have someone else close to the past he had never wanted to delve into again. Either way, it seemed so simple now he was amazed he hadn't thought of it before.

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until Kurt said, "Yes," and Blaine knew he could be referring to nothing else.

He relaxed completely, the restless thoughts finally sinking back into their dark corners of unreality,.

He let himself drift, anchored only by the feather-light pattern of Kurt's hands on his back.

* * *

Kurt only stopped massaging Blaine's back once he was certain he was asleep, the soft, almost-there snores confirmation of his suspensions. Gently clambering off the bed, he pressed one last light, fond kiss to the back of Blaine's hand before standing and stretching his own muscles. It was probably some time around eleven in the morning, judging by the vague spread of sunlight seeping in through the windows. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he wandered out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind him as he turned it on once more.

Almost immediately, a text from Rachel appeared. Auditions for West Side Story this Thursday! Be there? :)

Kurt shook his head slightly to himself as he sat down on the top stair and wrote back, I'll be there as he flipped through the other messages that began popping up. He had almost forgotten the production of West Side Story that the glee club was putting on -- after the incidents with Bletcher and the general insanity of preparing for sectionals and regionals hanging over the glee club's heads, it was understandably difficult for them to find time to put on a musical. Nevertheless, the idea had stuck and Kurt was certain that, by December at latest, they would have it well underway. Casting still needed to be done and arrangements prepared, however, which meant that there was still plenty of work in that department. After all the trouble with Sebastian, Kurt had basically pushed thoughts of musicals aside, but the fact that it was coming up did interest him.

And, who knows. Audition for Tony?

Smiling slightly to himself at his own audacity, Kurt frowned as he looked at a text sent from Finn less than two hours ago. Where are you?

I'm at Blaine's, Kurt responded, expecting the message to sit unanswered in Finn's inbox for another four hours or so.

Not so. The response was almost immediate, despite Finn's general tendency to ignore his phone during most hours of the day. (Kurt couldn't blame him. If he was dating Rachel, he would purposefully change his number without telling her and claim a poor cell phone company as the villain if she asked why he was not texting her back.)

You should have told someone. Burt freaked out when he couldn't figure out where you were.

Wincing at the thought of his dad worrying over him, Kurt assured, I'm fine, even while he knew that the situation as a whole could still use some improvements. Sebastian, for one, needed to be kicked forcibly off his high horse if anything was going to be accomplished, and the problems with Karofsky had to be dealt with.

Not to mention Blaine's parents, Kurt mused, wondering absentmindedly how that would go over once they found out that he had sneaked into their house and 'slept with' Blaine, even if he truly meant it in the most innocuous of fashions.

Tell your dad that, Finn answered after a long pause.

Kurt sighed and picked himself up from the stairs, already dialing the number for his dad as he walked downstairs.

"Kurt." His dad's voice was a mixture of relieved and disapproving from the other end of the line; Kurt could almost hear him setting down whatever he was doing to grip his phone in a two-handed grip. He winced slightly at the thought of him accidentally breaking the phone for sheer anxiety, hastening to prevent that from occurring.

He put on his best bright but still chastised voice as he said, "Hi, Dad. I'm really sorry for last night."

"You need to tell us when you decide to drive out to Westerville in the middle of the night," his dad said. "Even if it's an emergency, a little heads-up would be appreciated next time."

"Absolutely," Kurt agreed, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs as he spoke. "I promise I'll ask you next time, Dad. Or at least call."

"I wouldn't want to revoke your privilege to just drive out if you needed to, but I also need to know that you're okay, and when you just leave in the middle of the night like that. . . ." He could hear his dad sighing deeply on the other end of the line. "It's worrying, Kurt. I don't know what could have happened to you. What if you had gotten in a car wreck? Who would have known to go looking for you if you didn't arrive safely? What if you were attacked and no one knew to find you?"

Kurt shivered at the thought. "I just came out to Blaine's, Dad. It was important."

"I know. And I know you're a good kid, Kurt, so I trust that you would only do something like that if it was important. But I still need to know -- for my own peace of mind, and Carole's, and even Finn's when he's willing to admit it -- that you're okay when you do stuff like that. It just . . . worries me when my kid's two hours away in the middle of the night and I didn't even know about it beforehand."

"It won't happen again," Kurt promised quietly.

There was a heavy sigh from his dad's end. "Good. And I'm sorry, Kurt. I don't mean to be yelling at you or anything here, but I just want you to be safe."

"I know," Kurt assured. He did, and he could understand his dad wanting to know, too, so he wasn't angry at the questioning.

"Are the Andersons okay with you being there?"

Kurt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His dad seemed to sense his reluctance to answer; Kurt could almost hear him running his hand down his face. "Let me guess -- they don't even know you're there?"

"Dad, I promise you that we did nothing wrong," Kurt said at once.

"Yeah, well, I trust you, kid, but don't you think you should've at least told his parents you were there?"

"His father wasn't home," Kurt evaded.

"And his mom, too?"

Silence.

Another sigh. "Listen, Kurt. I'm sure you have the best intentions at mind, but you can't just go barging into someone else's house without at least asking first."

Kurt gripped his own phone slightly, trying to think of how to phrase what he had to say next. His dad waited, then asked in a slightly hesitant voice, "You still there, bud?" and it all just sort of gushed out.

"Blaine's parents don't care about him," he began heatedly, the words pouring out of him, voice gaining momentum as he spoke. "Every since he came out of the closet, they've acted like he isn't even their son. They didn't come to the hospital after he was injured, they didn't visit him or take him home, they didn't even ask how he was doing. They just assumed we would take care of him and that everything would return to normal once he was okay, that they could . . . could just go back to ignoring him once everything was over. They're awful, Dad, and I know it's wrong not to tell them I'm here, but his mother wouldn't have cared anyway and his father's -- he's just so indifferent to everything that he wouldn't have done anything, except maybe complained that I was infecting his stupid normal life with my gayness."

Kurt paused, drawing in a calming breath, and shook his head to himself as he held his phone to his ear, forcing himself to relax. "They're horrible, Dad. They don't know how to take care of him at all, and they don't even try, and last night . . . last night Blaine needed someone and since they weren't there, I just . . . I had to be here." He shrugged his shoulders lamely, knowing his dad couldn't see it, and waited.

"Well," his dad said at last, then cleared his throat slightly. "I didn't realize the Andersons were quite so . . . unpleasant."

"Terrible," Kurt corrected.

"Terrible," his dad echoed, sounding thoughtful. "You aren't overreacting about this at all?"

"Dad, you were there, they didn't--"

"I know. I'm just checking." A long pause, Kurt holding the phone anxiously, waiting for an answer, before his dad said at last, "He's always welcome here, you know. I mean, I know it's not the best permanent solution or anything, but . . . for the mean time, at least, it's easier than having to drive between Westerville and Lima every day."

Kurt itched with the sudden news to leap up and tell Blaine that they were going back to his house right now, as a nearly overwhelming urge to return to the Hudson-Hummels nearly overpowered him. He managed to restrain himself, however, with the simple practical reminder that Blaine was sleeping right now and he needed the rest. "I'll ask him later," he said at last, feeling some of the unspoken tension in him ease. He would have his dad and Carole and Finn to support him with all this instead of battling through it on his own; the thought was infinitely comforting.

Another pause. "Do you want me to come down there, Kurt? I could . . . I could talk to Blaine's parents a little. See if maybe I couldn't change their minds."

Kurt's lips curled in a rueful smile. "I'm not sure they can change, Dad," he admitted.

"Everyone can change," his dad retorted. "Let me talk to them sometime, maybe soften 'em up a bit so it's easier to sort things out."

Although still dubious that even his dad could get the Andersons to 'soften up' about anything, Kurt did relax minutely at the thought. At least he wouldn't be the only one speaking to the Andersons. "That would be nice," was all he said.

"Then I'll do that," his dad confirmed. "I trust you two can get back here on your own?"

Kurt nodded, then added, "Yes," for his dad's benefit.

"I'll see you later, then. Love you, Kurt. Bye."

"Love you, too. Bye, Dad."

* * *

"That smells fantastic," Blaine murmured against his shoulder, wrapping his arm around his waist. Kurt smiled at him, at his sleep-tousled hair and the not-quite-awake expression on his face. It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon now, and he was pleased that Blaine had been able to sleep through the day when it was so clear he needed the rest. He still leaned heavily against Kurt, not fully conscious yet, but Kurt didn't mind.

Blaine yawned abruptly, covering the gesture by burying his face in Kurt's shoulder, rubbing his forehead slightly against it, casually appreciative. "What is it?" he asked, slouching against him when Kurt tried to move away.

Kurt laughed slightly and mussed his hair. "That's for me to know and you to find out, isn't it?" he teased with a slight grin. He personally doubted the Anderson kitchen had ever smelled better -- there was an air of long time vacancy about it that just begged to be broken, and few things were better than a good stack of Kurt Hummel's pancakes to cure staleness and vacancy. Turning around in Blaine's sleepy grasp, he wrapped his own arms underneath his, squeezing him back. "You should know, either way," he added, while Blaine just leaned his head on his shoulder and waited for the explanation.

"Thought it was too late for breakfast," Blaine pointed out, voice slightly muffled by Kurt's shirt.

"Brunch," Kurt said, rolling his eyes as he reached over and turned off the stove so he would burn the pancake currently cooking.

"Thought it was too late for brunch," Blaine retorted in the same tone as before.

Kurt smiled. "What would you know?" he said in a mock haughty tone, nudging Blaine towards the table. "Go on, sit down and I'll let you be Finn for an hour."

"I don't want to be Finn. Rachel's his girlfriend," Blaine protested, grudgingly letting Kurt usher him over to the table and sitting down heavily in a chair. "She's a terrifying girlfriend."

"Finn was just the poor buffoon to take her in," Kurt said, shaking his head slightly as he brandished a plate of pancakes before setting it in front of Blaine. "If he wasn't her first, then I'm sure she would be a little more calm. Although, I doubt she'd have anyone but a first boyfriend. She's like that 'love at first sight' kind of person that would just find the 'right one' and never leave him."

"And is Finn the right one?" Blaine asked, looking down at the pancakes in bemusement. Kurt rolled his eyes and handed him a fork and a syrup bottle before he seemed to understand what it was.

"I'm not sure," Kurt admitted, returning to his pan on the stove to wash it out in the sink. "I mean, he can deal with her obsessiveness, which is obviously the first issue about her."

"True," Blaine murmured, plucking a piece of pancake off and popping it into his mouth. "But does that really make a lasting relationship?"

Kurt shrugged, scrubbing at the remaining pancake batter on the pan. "I don't know. Time tells all, doesn't it? But seriously, how many other people would be willing to sit through half of the things Rachel has put that poor boy through and still emerge liking her? Not very many. I mean, he still doesn't understand half of what she says, and I'm sure that the minute she starts talking he zones out half the time, but he still cares about her." Scrubbing his hands, Kurt turned off the faucet and towel-dried them, shrugging again as he leaned against the counter and looked at Blaine. He had at least a dozen pancakes waiting, nice and hot and fluffy, so that Blaine would have plenty if he wanted it. Blaine was still on the first one, biting slowly, methodically.

"It sounds weird, but I can actually see them getting married," Blaine said at last, with a slight, musing smile on his face. "They just . . . I don't know." He shook his head, waving a hand expressively, and took another bite of his pancake. "They suit each other."

"You sure you're not just being biased?" Kurt teased.

Blaine swallowed before looking at Kurt seriously. "I want us to last, too, you know," he said, with such sincerity that Kurt felt all of his teasing aura melt away in an instant, replaced with genuine love for this boy.

"I know," he assured, stepping for and sitting in the seat across from Blaine.

Blaine just watched him for several moments, pancakes forgotten, before nodding slightly and taking another bite.

"My dad said you're welcome to come stay with us," Kurt added. Blaine lifted a questioning eyebrow while he chewed, mercifully forgoing Finn's habit of doing so with his mouth open and instead chewing close-mouthed, slowly, thoughtfully.

"That would be nice," Blaine admitted at last.

Kurt felt like whatever remaining tension in him was gone, replaced with only a confidence that he was finally doing the right things.

"But I don't want to avoid the issue," Blaine added, gesturing around his house with a slightly forlorn expression.

"You wouldn't be," Kurt said at once. When Blaine looked disbelievingly at him, Kurt reached across the table and intertwined their hands. "I'm proud that you're strong enough to keep trying. But I don't want you to completely wear yourself down with this. You need to feel comfortable somewhere, at least, and I know it's not here."

Blaine stared at their hands, deliberately avoiding Kurt's gaze, before Kurt gently squeezed his hand. He sighed and lifted his eyes once more, meeting Kurt's. "Your dad's generous," he said at last.

Kurt laughed quietly. "He loves you, Blaine, even if he won't admit it aloud. He wouldn't let you near me if he didn't. He certainly wouldn't be okay with me coming out here on my own like this to see you." Blaine looked briefly guilty and opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but Kurt squeezed his hand again before he could do so. Blaine shut his mouth once more. "I want you to come back with me," Kurt admitted. "I won't force you to, but I know that we would all love to have you around, and if you're willing to forgive me for what I said to you before about Karofsky. . . ."

Blaine's expression softened. "I thought I already did," he said. The pancakes were completely forgotten; Kurt almost blushed under the intensity of his gaze, surprisingly alert. "Kurt, we were both stupid there. I get that. And I know that you didn't intend to pry or be disrespectful with what you said. So yes, I forgive you." He lifted their intertwined hands and pressed a brief kiss to the back of Kurt's before releasing it. Kurt felt his heart rate flutter wildly in his chest before it settled.

How can we have been together for almost a year now and things like that still get to me? he wondered, watching as Blaine finally picked at the second pancake.

"I love you," he blurted, and he knew that the timing wasn't perfect or romantic or sweet like it always was when Blaine first said it but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't remember the last time he had said it before Blaine, and Blaine needed to know that, above all else. Kurt loved, cherished, adored him, and never wanted him to think otherwise, no matter what sadistic ideas Sebastian had in mind or what twisted conventions his parents' indifference conveyed.

Blaine's expression was still soft and all smiles as he swallowed and said simply, without any of the hesitation Kurt had when he caught him off guard, "I love you, too."

* * *

"Finn, is that you?"

"Hi, Carole," Kurt said, beaming as he stepped in through the front door with Blaine in tow. Carole appeared around the kitchen threshold a moment later, blinking in surprise. "We're home," Kurt announced unnecessarily, hanging up his coat while Blaine did the same beside him.

"Oh, hi, boys," Carole said, smiling. "We were wondering when you would drop in. Here to stay, Blaine?"

"Here to stay," Blaine repeated, with a casual certainty to his voice that made Kurt want to squeal. He knew it was ridiculous and childish and a dozen other things, but he couldn't help himself. Sometimes, having Blaine Anderson as a boyfriend was just too much to soak in quietly and he just wanted to let everyone know that he had him and no one else could. Especially not Sebastian, he added, ideas for vengeance already dancing across his mind.

Carole stepped forward and tossed her apron over a kitchen chair, hugging Blaine first -- who startled briefly before hugging back -- and then Kurt, who returned it warmly. "Did you boys get dinner yet?" she asked, even though it was almost nine o'clock and definitely too late for a normal dinner.

Kurt nodded, since he had ended up eating a fair share of the pancakes even with Blaine knocking down half. Only Finn could have possibly eaten all the pancakes by himself, and while Blaine definitely could use a little more weight instead of his slightly leaner stress-induced self, Kurt didn't want to push him all at once to regain lost time. It was a slow but steady process: he couldn't expect Blaine's parents to make a sudden conversion from indifferent and distant to loving and caring, just as he couldn't expect the issue of Sebastian to disappear overnight.

But I can change it.

Emboldened by his successes already, Kurt listened absentmindedly as Blaine and Carole talked, Carole casually asking about their day and Blaine making up some excuse that it was fine. She chatted amiably about hers when Blaine turned the question and Kurt was content to sit at the kitchen counter beside Blaine and listen for a time. After maybe twenty minutes or so of solid listening, however, Kurt found his thoughts drifting once more to other plans, Blaine's voice a soothing constant beside him.

He had won the class presidency, but there was still the West Side Story production to consider, and admittance into NYADA, and the regionals competition where he was unsure whether or not Blaine would perform. He had the perfect boyfriend, but his boyfriend didn't have the perfect parents, and Kurt wanted to change that, too, at least in some way. He had finally forgiven Karofsky but now he had to help him come to terms publicly with his sexuality. They had survived the trials that Bletcher had put them through: now they had to survive Sebastian.

Smiling to himself, confident that he could outlast Sebastian, Kurt let the ideas form in his mind, turning over the different possibilities. He needed something that would send a message not only to the people affected at McKinley because of Sebastian parading Blaine's past around like it was a front-page story and calling out Karofsky's sexuality. He also needed something that would send the Warblers a stern reminder that people like Sebastian should never be admitted into their ranks, and that something had to give if things were going to get any better.

We need to take down Sebastian, Kurt thought.

Then he smiled to himself. Look out, Warbler. No one messes with my boyfriend.

"You okay?" Blaine murmured, looking at him in vague concern, while Kurt just shook his head and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"I'm good," he assured.

Time to step up to the plate and stop this.


	34. Chapter 34

Blaine smiled as he entered the Warblers' hall. The councilors' table was empty, the couches and chairs all perched emptily beside one another. There was a strange aura of home around it that surprised him. Ever since Sebastian had been initiated into the Warbler ranks, Blaine thought something had been tainted irreversibly. Remove Sebastian from the equation, however, and it was almost exactly the same as it had been when Blaine attended. He half-expected Wes to come bustling through the doors, flustered and with too many papers in his arms, ready to lecture.

Closing his eyes briefly, luxuriating in the familiarity, Blaine turned slightly as the door opened.

"What are you doing here?" Jeff asked, startled, as he stepped inside and hesitated before shutting the door behind himself.

"When's the next meeting?" Blaine asked instead, his demeanor amicable as he sat on the arm of one of the chairs.

"Ten minutes," Jeff said slowly. "You're sitting in?"

"You could say that."

Jeff looked briefly worried before a relieved expression seeped across his face. He sank down into one of the leather couches, ignoring the inquiring eyebrow Blaine lifted in his direction. "We need someone to step in," Jeff said, when Blaine let the silence stretch between them. "We need a leader like you, Blaine. Sebastian keeps everything in order and he's fair enough, but no one's sure how to act around him after the whole McKinley disaster." Jeff wrinkled his nose in unpleasant remembrance. Blaine waited patiently for him to continue, head tilted to one side.

"No one knows who to trust," Jeff finished. "Half believe that Sebastian honestly didn't know better. . . ." he trailed off meaningfully.

"The other half think he's wrong."

Blaine hummed slightly, clasping his hands. "I'm not here to rejoin the Warblers or anything," he warned, since Jeff's face was almost painfully optimistic now. The crestfallen expression that followed nearly made him take back his words, but he plunged forward without letting it get to him. You left the Warblers. You left Dalton Academy. There is no going back. "I just want to make a few points."

"Make all the points you want," Jeff said at once. Then he hesitated. "You aren't going to make this any easier, are you?"

Blaine laughed, genuinely amused. "Actually," he said once he had calmed down. "That's exactly what I intend to do." Then he leaned back casually and looked at the door as it opened, a few unfamiliar Warblers stepping inside.

They eyed Blaine with open skepticism, two dark-eyed and one blue-eyed, all uncertain how to react around this new element. Blaine said nothing, letting them draw their own conclusions for now, and only offered a vaguely friendly smile in return. Jeff looked uneasy and briefly tempted to introduce Blaine before he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled towards the councilors' table, hesitantly taking the seat on the far right. Even he doesn't like being there, Blaine mused. Letting his gaze orient on the middle seat, knowing that Jacob Trume would fill it momentarily, Blaine couldn't blame him. He wouldn't want to sit there with him, either.

More Warblers trickled in as the first crowd took their seats, a few lingering in standing positions as all surveyed Blaine with inquiring eyes. He had dressed in his Dalton Academy uniform with the Warblers' pin included, a clear marker of his status. Jeff, he noticed peripherally, was looking at the pin with a mixture of tension and relief.

I've declared my allegiance, Blaine thought, looking over familiar and unfamiliar faces. The latter clearly outnumbered the former: with few exceptions, all of the Warblers were new. They would understand him just as well as Sebastian, as a stranger, an intruder. The key difference was Jeff and Nick's combined influence. They had clearly told the Warblers something about Blaine, because the gazes that scrutinized him were curious, wary, but not disinterested. They knew he would change the game, alter the foundations they had started to rebuild, and whether he would destroy or create had yet to be determined.

Perhaps seven minutes passed with a steady stream of red-lined navy blue blazers stepping periodically in through the doors. Nick appeared after three minutes, looking first shocked, then relieved as he spotted Blaine on the couch. Blaine smiled at him, lifting a hand slightly in acknowledgment before shaking his head when Nick walked over, opening his mouth to say something. Later, he warned silently. Nick paused, then turned and sauntered over to the councilors' table instead, sitting directly beside Jeff in the head councilor's seat.

Blaine barely controlled the urge to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Nick had never come across to him as the bold one of the two, but he had also never considered Nick and Jeff audacious to begin with, either. Seeing him taking the stand emboldened Blaine somewhat, especially when he only straightened his shoulders as curious gazes drifted over to him as well.

Overall, the atmosphere was quietly tense as the last few stragglers wandered in, squeezing into the few remaining seats, one even opting to sit on the floor beside a crowded couch. He looked up at Blaine in unmistakable relief, and Blaine recognized Cameron with a start. He had matured as time went on, with a new broadness to his shoulders and experience to his expression that comforted Blaine. Another person who would listen to him, then, and who, if he wasn't mistaken, looked distinctly relieved to see him around.

At last, the Warblers sat, the murmured speech of a filled room dissolving as all eyes drifted to the door.

Sebastian sauntered in, his entire visage bleeding security and confidence, his expression not altering as he noted Blaine's seat on the couch. The knee-jerk reflex to get up and tell him to sit down died in Blaine's throat as he forcefully quelled it, instead looking only mildly curious as he watched Sebastian take his position at the corner of the head councilors' table, leaning against it just so to convey an aura of authority and control.

"Head Councilor Trume is ill," he said at last, when the last of the wary eyes had drifted from Blaine to him.

Jeff straightened slightly in surprise, Nick folding his hands calmly on the table, looking at Sebastian without hostility or hope. Blaine noted both of their reactions before he looked back at Sebastian. His expression was cool and unperturbed as he scanned the room, blue eyes seeming to catch on each of the cautiously attentive stares before he met Blaine's at last.

His mouth turned upwards in a minute smirk. Blaine wanted to tell him to stop it, but he knew it wouldn't make a difference and he didn't want to come across as the childish one. So he simply stared back, not intimidated by the differences in their height or the distance between them. It was satisfying, even if he could feel the remaining Warblers' gazes boring into him, to finally be able to show his hatred for Sebastian openly.

Sebastian looked like a mountain lion, all long, lean muscle, proud and secure.

"Jeff, Nick," he said at last without looking away from Blaine. "Aren't you two supposed to handle spies?"

Jeff shifted his shoulders as though he would speak but Nick cleared his throat. Wordlessly, Jeff nodded and leaned back, allowing Nick to speak.

"Blaine Anderson is not a spy," he said, very firmly.

Sebastian lifted his eyebrows and turned to the Warblers at large. "A rival glee club member enters our hall unannounced and expects not to be considered a spy?"

Blaine needed no further prompting. He stood up, satisfied that every eye turned at once to him, Sebastian's included, and spread his hands, looking at Nick and Jeff pointedly.

Nick's lips twitched as he repressed a smirk. "Senior Warbler Blaine Anderson, the floor is yours."

A murmur broke out among the Warblers, tiding across the room as the Warblers exchanged looks, all filled with a mixture of emotions. Cameron alone was grinning like a wildcat from his seat on the floor, looking up at Blaine with an expression that said, About time, Anderson.

"Fellow Warblers," Blaine said, pointedly ignoring the way that Sebastian refused to sit -- there was no where to sit at this point, unless he wanted the remaining councilor's seat or the floor. Sebastian's pride would never let him sit on the floor, but Blaine was fairly sure only the heightened drama kept him from casually claiming the empty councilor's seat.

"Today I stand before you as a member of the New Directions at William McKinley High School." He paused, letting the admission sink in. None of their eyes strayed. "I gave up my privilege to sing with you all when I transferred schools. However," he added, with a delicate inflection to his voice that made the importance of his next words impossible to miss, "I'm still a Warbler. You don't stop being that once you take off the uniform and lose the pin." He touched the pin briefly, clasping his hands together in front of him after a moment. All eyes were still on him, fixed, waiting.

"What happened last week at McKinley," he went on, "was exactly why we were accused of being privileged, pampered birds when I was a junior here. We hid away to avoid things like that. The Warblers are prestigious. We don't pick petty fights with other schools because we can't handle the possibility that someone out there doesn't find us attractive." And he let his gaze linger on Sebastian, leaving his meaning perfectly clear. "We're supposed to be better than that. We're supposed to be focusing on our futures, on being a team and not a machine." He let his gaze pass over all of them, meeting as many eyes as he could before taking a breath and continuing.

"You can't let one person control you. You can't let that same person make decisions that are completely out of line with everything that the Warblers are supposed to represent. We have integrity. And I refuse to use the past tense of that because in spite of the terrible display I saw when you all came to McKinley -- just to disclose personal information you had no right to, I might add -- I know that we're all still Warblers here. Some of the most incredible people I ever met came from this room, and some are still here." He looked at Jeff, Nick, Cameron, letting his gaze linger on the few others he still knew before meeting the gazes of the majority unknown.

"I don't want to see everything that I loved here crumble down because of one person." He turned to face Sebastian directly now. "I want you to look at what's happened and make an educated decision. Do you really want someone like that as part of our group? Because I don't. I don't approve of taking a former student's private information and publicizing it. I don't approve of harassing and even stalking that person. I would never approve of outing another person."

Several eyebrows rose, and Blaine could almost hear another murmur rippling through the assembled Warblers.

"Just think about it," he said at last, voice soft enough that it forced them to strain to hear him, before inclining his head slightly towards Nick and taking a seat.

Nick waited a moment, allowing the group to absorb this new information, before clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.

"Junior Warbler Sebastian, do you have anything to say?"

Sebastian smiled, all teeth. "I do, actually," he said in a voice that might have passed as modest in anyone else. "Why would you transfer?"

Blaine smiled back with fewer teeth but the same intensity. "Because I cannot stand to be apart from the person that I love," he answered simply. "I loved singing with you guys. But I love Kurt Hummel more, and I couldn't stay here once he was gone. So I left." He shrugged slightly.

The Warblers were silent.

"So you sacrificed your team mates for your boyfriend," Sebastian said softly, shaking his head in a woe begotten way.

"I sacrificed nothing," Blaine retorted, equally quiet. "Aside from the humiliation of allowing someone like you to lead the Warblers."

Several of the Warblers shifted uncomfortably, directing uncertain glances at Sebastian and Blaine in equal parts. Blaine stood calmly under the scrutiny, willing them to use rationality and decide for themselves what they would do.

For a long time, it seemed like no one would speak. The tension precipitated until Blaine felt like he could reach out and run his fingers over it, yet he felt oddly calm. For some reason, the same worry that had plagued him a mere day ago nearly intolerably was not nearly as horrid in the face of what he could return to. Even if no one believed him and the Warblers rejected him, then he still had Kurt and the Hudson-Hummels and tentatively a life in Lima to return to. That mattered more to him than the Warblers' approval, even if he did want to see Sebastian face the yields of his own power-streak.

At last, Nick cleared his throat, clasping his hands together almost noisily in the quiet. "We will vote on it tomorrow," he said decisively. "Everyone needs time to think."

Blaine nodded inwardly in congratulations, casting Nick an approving look. He had no expectations that the Warblers would suddenly accept him into their numbers once more, but he was hopeful that he could remain on their good side, despite Sebastian's efforts to antagonize him. He had turned the tables on Sebastian, so that now he was on the defensive.

If he has a shred of rationality to him, Blaine thought, watching as Sebastian stared at him with cool, untroubled eyes.

"I have just one more thing before I leave you to it," Blaine added, energized rather than intimidated by the stares that met him. "Many of you would have heard of this tradition without actually witnessing its implementation. I was stunned that no one had re-initiated it, but if I may be so bold, I would like to introduce you all to the newest Warbler." Blaine stepped over towards the side door and tugged it open, reaching down and carefully retrieving the Burberry-covered cage inside of it. "Everyone, meet Parlezvous," he said, tugging off the cover with a flourish.

The Warblers blinked at him, surprised. Jeff let out a brief laugh before suppressing it, staring at Blaine in open amazement. Nick looked pleased, Cameron on the verge of laughing himself.

"She's only two years old," Blaine added, balancing the canary cage in his hand while Parlezvous hopped around eagerly in the cage, "but after Pavarotti's death, we still need to keep the tradition strong. This isn't just a bird: it's a representation of our voice. We can't silence that. We learned that with Pavarotti -- some of us did, at least. For the rest of you, this is new, and I know it seems strange now but it's something that you'll find does make a difference. Since the tradition states that our 'oldest tradition,'" he hefted the cage delicately, "is assigned to our 'newest Warbler,' I feel it is only fair that those of you who have never before been given Pavarotti have the opportunity. Nick, Jeff, I trust you can arrange that?"

Jeff looked briefly alarmed by this sudden shift in responsibility, but Nick nodded, comfortable in his position. He makes a good head councilor, Blaine thought, smiling inwardly as he walked Parlezvous over to the table. He had talked it over with Kurt for hours the night beforehand, whispered conversations while trying not to rouse Carole, Finn, or Burt's attention. Blaine had first proposed the idea and ultimately gone out and bought the canary, while Kurt agreed and came up with the name.

'Parlez-vous' is 'do you speak?' in French, he had said. Pavarotti was our voice, this will be theirs.

Blaine had liked it, and the canary had had no objections, and thus the unnamed bird became Parlezvous.

Setting Parlezvous' cage on the table, Blaine looked back at the Warblers, all of whom were watching him with intensely curious eyes. "I leave you to it," he said simply, squeezing Nick's shoulder once in gratitude for his permission to speak before walking without another word through the doors.

Sebastian watched him the entire way but said nothing. Blaine smiled to himself and chalked it up as a victory.

Have fun, Sebastian.

* * *

"Santana, I need your help."

"What is it now, hairspray?"

Santana did not look up at him as she spoke, but she did acknowledge him, which Kurt thought was at least somewhat of a hopeful sign. Normally she would just give him the cold shoulder and walk away if she had no interest whatsoever in the conversation, and try as he might Kurt would have no hope of gaining her attention. This time, however, he noticed the almost weary slouch to her shoulders, a barely perceptible hunch that he was certain he would not have noticed if he hadn't been standing less than three feet away from her. (Which, considering it was Santana Lopez, was definitely not a very safe distance.)

"Do you remember the Bully Whips?" Kurt asked, casually leaning against the lockers beside her and not flinching when she practically slammed her locker door shut.

"Is this about you or the prep boy? Because I'm not helping either of you," she said at once.

"It's not about me, and he has a name," Kurt retorted, restraining himself from further comment. He knew that Santana was not as fond of Blaine as she had appeared to be during the 'It's Not Unusual' number. The ploy to distract him while the cheerleaders doused the piano in lighter fuel had worked, but any feelings that might have been theatrically present between Santana and Blaine clearly did not apply to daily life. Kurt had been surprised at first when he saw how enthusiastically she was involved in the number (Blaine's easy-going reciprocation had not surprised him at all; Blaine would dance with anyone if it meant having a little more flare during a performance). It wasn't until he sat up that night contemplating the strange sabotage of the pianos that he realized it had all just been a distraction meant to keep the rest of the school from paying attention to who was responsible.

"Whatever, twinkle toes," Santana said, brushing unkindly past him. "I need to get to class."

"You don't have anything this block," Kurt retorted. "Study hall."

Santana paused and turned slowly to confront him. "Is stalking cheerleaders' schedules your latest gay fling?" she asked with her usual caustic charm.

Kurt leaned in closer, deliberately keeping their conversation private even as she folded her arms and leaned back, and repeated seriously, "I need your help."

"If this has anything to do with your precious boyfriend, I'm out."

"I already said it has nothing to do with Blaine," Kurt reminded, exasperated. "It's about . . . Karofsky." He kept his voice low enough that only someone leaning on their shoulders could have heard it. Santana's lips twitched slightly before pursing.

"Why would I want to help him?" she asked promptly.

"Maybe because you two were beards and you were willing to start an anti-bullying organization in one of the most prejudiced high schools in Ohio?"

Santana shrugged slightly, rolling her eyes in a purposefully disinterested gesture. "I thought you had your own gay club to take care of that," she pointed out, starting to walk away.

Kurt caught her arm. "Santana. For one minute, just stop being a selfish bitch and listen to me."

That finally caught and held her attention.

"What do you want, Hummel?" she asked at last. She was wearing the look that said she would happily castrate him if he didn't provide a damn good explanation.

Kurt didn't hesitate. "Karofsky's been outed."

And my, didn't that get Santana to drop the angry expression. She cast a glance over his shoulder, so quick that he would have missed it if he wasn't so close, before she glared at him. "How do you know?"

"Trust me," Kurt said grimly.

Santana rolled her eyes again. "Start talking, Hummel."

"You started the Bully Whips last year," Kurt said at once. "Well, now we have PFLAG."

"You seriously want me to join your club?" Santana asked, with such incredulity in her voice that Kurt would have thought that he had proposed to have sex with her. He shuddered internally at the thought. The idea of having sex with a girl was bad enough; with someone like Santana, it was downright terrifying.

"I need you to help me discourage the publicity that will come with it being out there that he's gay," Kurt said. "You knew him better than anyone else last year when push came to shove. You got him to apologize. We need your help."

"We being you, the hobbit, and Karofsky."

Kurt rolled his eyes but decided to let it go, nodding. "Yes."

There was a long pause. Kurt was certain that she was calculating the most painful way to knee him in the groin before she nodded abruptly.

"Let me just tell you this very clearly, hairspray," she added, while Kurt breathed a silent sigh of relief. She stepped closer, the conversation completely enclosed to just the two of them, and said seriously, "I'm only doing this because your boyfriend saved Brittany."

Kurt blinked in surprise. It amazed him how easily he could forget that, in a way. Well, he amended gravely, never forget so much as not think about it. The fact that Santana remembered shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. She tended to pass things over as either coincidence or luck and assign gratitude as least often as possible. The fact that she was recognizing that Blaine had saved Brittany's life was a fairly large leap of generosity.

"So, we just need to keep Jacob Ben Israel quiet about this?" she asked.

"As many people as possible," Kurt amended.

Santana sighed. "Come on, hairspray," she said, grabbing his collar and nearly dragging him down the hall. Kurt flailed to keep up with her, his dignity momentarily forgotten as he focused on not face-planting. "I have an idea."

* * *

"Marcus, we need your muscle."

Marcus looked down at Santana and Kurt in surprise, shutting his locker door carefully. "My muscle?" he asked, balancing his books in one hand. "What do you need it for? Someone harassing you guys again?" His voice dropped into a warning register as he scanned the halls, chest swelling slightly in preparation as he cracked his knuckles. Several bystanders quickly made themselves scarce. Kurt wished briefly that he could follow them, even though he knew that Marcus was on his side.

"We're going to stuff Jacob Ben Israel up a pipe," Santana broke in, distracting him.

"Santana," Kurt hissed warningly.

"What? You said you wanted to get rid of him."

"I said I wanted to keep him quiet," he pointed out, exasperated.

"Quiet, taken care of, same difference." She looked at Marcus pointedly. "Are you in or not?"

"I don't know," he said, looking at Kurt. "Isn't that illegal?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "It's only illegal if we get caught."

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the whole glee party all bunched up in one," a new voice said. Kurt turned to see one of the hockey players standing at attention, two large slushy cups in hand. He grimaced inwardly as he noted the seven other slushy cups the remaining five hockey jocks were holding, each wearing an almost sinister expression. "You've been causing us a lot of trouble with the food chain," he added in Marcus' direction. "Glee clubbers have been stepping out of their rightful place at the bottom."

"One drop and I will pummel you," Marcus said.

The hockey jock laughed. "Do you really think you can? We already sent our boys after that Karofsky kid, and we know you three are in on it." He hefted his slushy cups importantly, grinning. "So which one's first -- troll, fairy, or bitch?"

"I'll show you what a bitch I am," Santana began heatedly, but Kurt held her arm since he knew that while she could probably take the first one down without stirring trouble, there were still seven other cups trained on them and little likelihood she would be able to knock out the entire crowd first.

"We know you glee-otchs lose sight of how the rules work," the hockey jock went on, "but that's why we're here to remind you."

I'm definitely petitioning for the hockey team to lose funding because of this, Kurt thought, glaring at the taller jock.

"So what are you going to do?" his mouth asked without his permission. His feet stepped forward without conscious acquiescence, too, and Kurt almost winced as he stood in front of the other. "You can slushy us now, but it won't stop us from fighting you guys."

"Like a runt like you could take us on," Hockey Jock sneered.

"I could," Marcus rumbled.

Hockey Jock sized him up before looking over his shoulder and smirking. "Six against one? I doubt even you could pull that one off, gorilla. Let's teach these fags a lesson." He hefted his cups, and as one a shower of ice rained down on them.

Corn syrup burned horrendously, but Kurt could still hear the beautiful, welcome voice that rang out next.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You six are off the team." Coach Beiste's thundering tone rang down the hall, students scattering as she limped over on her crutches, somehow impressive and looming despite them. "I don't want to hear any crap about this being unfair, either. That is unacceptable. If you all don't get out of my sight in twenty seconds, I will personally see you all expelled. Hell, I might still have you expelled. Principal Figgins' office. Now."

The jocks looked tempted to scramble, but Coach Beiste grabbed the first one that tried and used his own momentum to propel him in Figgins' office direction. The remaining five seemed to decide that resistance was futile before hastening after him, shoulders down so that their faces would not be quite as noticeable. It was still clear that the entire hallway was watching the display.

"Are you three all right?" Coach Beiste asked, her voice more normal and less terrifying now. Kurt squinted, the chunks of slushy in his eyes and mouth making it impossible to respond.

He heard Marcus make a noncommittal sound-- "This stuff stings" -- while Santana said something sharp and threatening-sounding in Spanish.

"Come on," Coach Beiste said, putting a surprisingly gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder and nudging him towards the opposite end of the hall. "You three can clean up in the locker room."

* * *

"Thanks for stepping in," Kurt told Coach Beiste quietly once he had gotten the majority of the corn syrup off his face. "It's not often that a teacher actually does that."

"It's wrong," Coach Beiste said, shaking her head and offering him a clean towel while Marcus sat on one of the benches, his hands clasped thoughtfully over one knee, his expression pensive. Santana was fuming in a corner, her arms folded and the vast majority of slushy ice out of her hair. A few wet pieces testified to the fact that she had been slushied.

"No one should ever treat people like that. I don't care if you're high schoolers or glee clubbers or fish. You don't deserve it, and I'm not going to stand by and watch it happen. I caught that Karofsky kid earlier just before they got him -- apparently some sort of slushy circle or another -- but I'm sorry I wasn't quick enough for you guys."

"It's fine," Kurt answered reflexively.

"Where is Karofsky?" Santana asked, surprising him.

Coach Beiste seemed surprised, too, before she answered. "I think he went home. Something about picking up a younger sibling from daycare."

Santana unfolded her arms, her expression suddenly unreadable. "I'll go talk to him," was all she said as she left, already pulling out her phone.

Kurt blinked after her, tempted to ask but not quite enough to risk having his head torn off if she was secretly angry.

"She'll figure it out," Coach Beiste assured him as the door shut with a resounding clang.

"I hope so," Kurt murmured, brushing at a stray hint of corn syrup in his hair. "Ugh, this stuff is ridiculous. I'm going to smell like watermelon all week."

"At least it's not cherry. I heard that's pretty disgusting."

Kurt quirked a small smile despite himself, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. Damp and out of sorts and gross, and now all he wanted to do was take a nice, hot, proper shower at home, not dunk his head under a lukewarm shower head scrubbing slushy off his face. The thought of home struck him with a sudden aching longing: normally whenever he was slushied he would just power through it, but right now all he wanted was home.

And Blaine, he added silently.

They had agreed that Blaine would take care of the Warblers and Kurt would handle the Karofsky situation back at home, although Kurt fully intended to have his say as far as Sebastian went eventually. He had known from the way that Blaine talked about it the night before that he just needed to speak with the Warblers, and though Kurt had not been entirely sure it would do any good, he knew that it would at least put Blaine's mind somewhat at rest to do so. Now, however, Kurt wished that they had just put together a united front to deal with the Karofsky situation and left Sebastian for another day. At least then he wouldn't have been here alone, scrubbing slushy off his face and feeling exactly like he had two years ago after Karofsky had shoved him into a locker: alone and very, very cold.

"We should ban slushies," Marcus said abruptly.

Kurt blinked at him, then winced as it seemed to drive an unseen particle of corn syrup deeper into his eye. "What do you mean?" he asked, rubbing at the spot.

"A school like this shouldn't even have slushy machines if they're being abused like that," Marcus elaborated, looking up at Kurt before standing. "You're the class president. You should ban them."

"I would if I could," Kurt said dryly. The food department was out of his reach, although he was always free to submit proposals for other people to review.

Marcus shook his head, undeterred. "You're Kurt Hummel. You can do it."

A pause.

"I'd back it," Coach Beiste said, her voice serious. "If you went through with it, that is."

Kurt looked at the two of them, finally able to do so without feeling the slushy burning unbearably at his eyes, and felt relief seeping through him. You don't have to do this alone, a small voice piped in. They'll support you.

"For now," he said at last, "I just want to get through this semester."

"If you do decide to go through with it," Coach Beiste said, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "let me know."

"Same," Marcus agreed.

"I will," Kurt promised.

Will you? his conscience mused. Will you really?

Of course.

* * *

"Screw it, I'm going to go give those hockey jerks a piece of my mind," Finn said, standing up as he noticed the way Kurt's hair was plastered uncharacteristically to his head.

Kurt shook his head, sitting down in the top row of the choir room. They were ten minutes early for the after school practice, so of course no one else was there yet. "Figgins already took care of it. Well. Coach Beiste took care of it, but he made it official."

"You got slushied?" Blaine asked, looking deeply apologetic.

Kurt nodded. "It was only a matter of time, really."

"Dude, this is so unfair," Finn argued, unconvinced that he couldn't do anything. "I should seriously go beat some of those guys' heads in."

"You could do that," Kurt said dryly, "but then Figgins would have to expel you."

"To hell with it. This is crazy."

"Finn, I appreciate the sentiment, but a slushy mob isn't worth expulsion."

"Like hell it isn't," Puck retorted, stepping in while Artie wheeled in behind him. "So we're in glee. Hudson's right. Screw it. That doesn't mean that we should have to put up with this."

"Damn straight," Artie said.

"Besides," Puck went on, looking over the four of them seriously, "we're all guys here. We have an obligation to make things good for ourselves this year. We're seniors."

"Junior, actually," Artie corrected.

"Whatever. Seniors plus one. This is our last chance. We don't get another year to make things 'better' if it doesn't work out."

They all were quiet for a few moments, thinking about that. Even Artie looked subdued.

Then: "I agree," Blaine said simply.

Puck looked at him, silently assessing, and before Kurt could roll his eyes and tell him that Blaine wasn't a threat to his masculinity, he nodded, looking determined. "Exactly. We're stuck in this hell-hole together. I'm not letting some hockey bastards ruin that. It doesn't matter if it's Hummel or Hudson or Chang or freakin' Anderson that gets slushied. I'm sick of people walking all over us. We're dudes. We don't let people walk over us."

"Damn straight," Artie repeated with a grin.

"Puck's right," Finn said, standing and looking at the impromptu circle. "This is ridiculous. We shouldn't have to put up with it, either. It's bad enough that we get a bad rep at competitions, but here, too?" He looked at them all seriously. "Let's show this school that we're not going to stand for it. No more slushying. No more harassment. And none of this stupid bias because we're all supposedly gay for being in glee club. No offense," he added in Blaine and Kurt's direction.

Blaine shrugged, while Kurt looked unmoved.

"Kurt, you're class president," he added, looking at Kurt alone. "We can protect each other, but we can't do anything about the bigger picture without some higher influence."

Kurt tilted his head slightly to one side. "You want me to speak to Figgins?"

"I know you can do it, dude. You're pretty awesome at organizing stuff. We'll back you." Puck, Artie, and Blaine nodded. "Just get him to hear you out? I'll come with you, if you want."

Folding his hands, Kurt leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. It was unusual for Finn to hand over the leadership of any charge so willingly, but it encouraged Kurt, too. Maybe they could make things better. Marcus alone couldn't protect everyone in glee club from slushying, but maybe if all the guys were in on it (well, Kurt reminded himself, Finn would have to let Mike and Marcus know about this meeting later), they could actually get something done.

Someone needs to spearhead the charge, Kurt thought. Finn doesn't have the same influence as I do now.

Letting a tiny smile quirk his lips at the thought -- once, Kurt would have killed to have half the respect Finn did -- Kurt nodded slightly. "I'll see what I can do," was all he said.

* * *

"Fiiinn!"

"Finn, your damsel's in distress," Kurt called, turning the page of his notebook without batting an eyelash at the repeated knocking below. He knew that Rachel would have just walked in on her own after the first perfunctory knocks, but Kurt had grown wiser than that and barricaded the door. Which effectively left her boyfriend to open the door instead, a task that was proving almost tedious as Finn continued to fail to make an appearance.

"I'll get it," Blaine offered, moving to sit up from where he was lying on his stomach watching Kurt doodle in French. Kurt rolled his eyes and planted an elbow lightly on his back, restraining him.

"Trust me, you do not want to talk to Rachel Berry this late," he said.

It was only nine o'clock in the evening, but by Berry standards that was tantamount to midnight. Clearly there was some Berry emergency she was freaking out over and, with Kurt's dad working late at the shop and Carole busy in the kitchen making some dessert or another, Kurt was fairly sure that no one was going to answer the door any time soon.

"Come on," Blaine said, making no move to protest as Kurt wrote flowingly in French. "Someone has to answer that."

"Even Carole's not answering," Kurt pointed out dryly. "Don't you think that's a fairly good indicator when not to answer the door?"

Blaine was silent, watching him draw while Rachel kept tap-tap-tapping on the door, until he rolled off his stomach and onto his feet in one smooth motion. He was out the door before Kurt could so much as say, 'Don't,' and by the time he had a coherent protest worked up the front door was already being opened. Kurt scrambled to the stairs just in time to see Rachel launch herself at Blaine, latching onto him instantly. Looking slightly startled but overall relieved that she had stopped knocking on the door, Blaine nudged the door shut with his foot and, after realizing that she wasn't going to let go any time soon, gently attempted to disentangle himself.

Shaking his head to himself, Kurt detoured across the hall to Finn's room, knocking once on the door jamb. "You better be decent," he warned, stepping inside.

Finn was decent, at least, and clearly immersed in his video games, with his head phones over his ears and a controller in hands. His room was, as per usual, chaotic, and Kurt did his best not to stare at the mess too long before his eyes started burning. Finn looked up at him, startled, as he entered, tugging the head phones off and frowning. "What's up?"

"Your damsel's here."

Finn blinked, uncomprehending. Kurt rolled his eyes. "Rachel?" he added, when it seemed like Finn genuinely wouldn't work it out on his own.

Finn's mouth opened in an 'o' as he scrambled to his feet. "Is she . . . ?"

"Probably smothering my boyfriend? Yes," Kurt finished dryly.

Rachel was indeed clinging to Blaine like an oversized marmot, but at least Blaine had gotten her to sit down on the couch instead. Kurt had no idea what sort of drama had happened this time, but she wasn't talking, just leaning her head on his shoulder and letting him rub her back.

Kurt made a soft, mildly disgruntled noise in the back of his throat as he led the way down the stairs.

"Found him," he announced, Finn half-stumbling after him, looking sheepish and apologetic.

"I'm never going to get into NYADA," Rachel said, her voice muffled by Blaine's shoulder.

"Hey, don't talk like that," Blaine said in his usual warm, soothing comfort-voice. "No decisions have been made yet. You're still just as likely as anyone else -- more than most -- to get in."

Finn sat down on the couch beside Blaine, looking awkward and uncertain. Kurt stood beside the stairs, waiting, but Rachel just sniffed and stayed where she was, not even bothering to acknowledge Finn.

"Jesse St. James is still at Julliard," she went on disconsolately. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"I'm sure you'll find somewhere."

"Where will you go?"

Blaine blinked. Kurt did the same, while Finn just looked confused in general.

"I don't know yet," Blaine said slowly.

Rachel sniffed again. "Julliard?"

"Maybe," Blaine allowed.

"You should come to NYADA with us," Rachel said, her voice almost slurring, "come with . . . Kurt and me . . . and Finny bear."

Finn blushed to his hairline, and Kurt valiantly repressed a laugh behind his hand. Blaine, bless him, didn't even shake a little with repressed laughter, although Kurt let out a coughing sound that could just barely pass as 'not laughter.'

"I could," Blaine said, though his voice didn't hold much conviction.

Kurt frowned slightly. What's that supposed to mean? It was strange, but he had automatically assumed Blaine would be coming to NYADA with him if he did decide to go. Honestly, it hadn't crossed his mind that Blaine would go elsewhere.

Panic flashed across his mind. What if he doesn't go to New York at all? What if he wants to stay here, or he goes somewhere else out of state? What if he leaves us completely and finds a different group of friends and a new boyfriend?

Kurt forcibly silenced the thoughts and focused on Blaine as he delicately tugged on Rachel's arms, which had finally gone slack around him, and deposited her in Finn's arms instead. "Hug Finn," Blaine said, getting up before she could latch onto him again.

Rachel curled up against her boyfriend and made a contented noise, eyes closed.

"I don't think I've ever seen her that drunk on sleep," Kurt mused in a quiet voice as they wandered into the kitchen where Carole was working. "That smells amazing," he added in her direction in a normal tone, smiling at her.

"Thanks, sweetie," she said, beaming, as she pulled the apple crisp out of the oven. "I felt like it was time to break into the Thanksgiving spirit of November."

"Good idea," Blaine approved with a grin, sitting at the island beside Kurt.

"You don't suppose Dad's going to be unhappy when Finn eats it all?" Kurt pointed out, closing his eyes and savoring the smell of warm apples as Carole set the hot pan on the oven, tugging off her mitts.

"I don't think we'll have to worry about Finn eating it all," she assured, nodding at the threshold where the living room was. "He's a little busy right now."

"Thank Gaga for that," Kurt said earnestly.

"So, talk to me: I feel like I haven't heard from you boys in forever and you live here."

Kurt shrugged. "I blame that entirely on our overcrowded schedules," he said.

"I thought seniors were supposed to cruise through the year?" Carole pointed out.

Blaine shook his head this time. "At Dalton, becoming a senior's like becoming the president. Tons of homework. Nick and Jeff looked like there were about to collapse when I saw them earlier."

Carole blinked, surprised. "You went to Westerville again?"

"Just for the morning. I didn't have any classes at McKinley and Principal Figgins is pretty lenient about letting students leave if they have a good record," Blaine said with a shrug.

"Still, that's a four hour drive. I don't know how you do it."

"Lots of practice," Blaine assured dryly.

"I just wish our schools weren't so far apart," Kurt said in an almost wistful tone.

Blaine nudged his shoulder slightly. "They aren't," he pointed out. "They're the same."

Smiling slightly, Kurt looked over as Carole drew a knife slowly through the apple crisp, almost salivating on the spot for how good it looked and smelled. Finn was definitely missing out.

"Can you believe it's almost Thanksgiving?" Carole asked, dishing out three slices before handing Kurt and Blaine a plate each. "My mind's still set on Halloween. You boys'll be through this semester before I know it."

"Trust me, you'll be begging us to leave by the end of the year," Blaine assured with a smile, accepting a fork and digging up a bite of apple crisp.

"Well, I don't know what your parents are planning but you're welcome to stay here as long as you want, hun."

"My parents are pretty open-minded to the issue," Blaine assured, keeping his tone very pointedly polite. Kurt noted just how light it was, misleadingly simple and unbothered. "They mostly leave it up to me to decide."

"Still, they must want you back some of the time," Carole said, nonchalant.

Blaine grimaced before he could fully hide it. "Yeah. Some of the time."

There was silence as the three ate their respective plates of apple crisp, with only the occasional sniffs from Rachel in the living room to disrupt the silence, before at last Carole spoke again.

"Don't feel like I'm pressuring you to leave or anything, huh. It's nice having a gentleman around." She smiled at him, warm, genuine, and he smiled back, although Kurt could tell it was a little forced, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Thanks for the crisp," Kurt said, tugging Blaine's arm lightly and sliding out of his own seat. "Don't let Finn near it."

"I'll try not to," Carole said as they disappeared around the corner.

* * *

Sebastian sat in the head councilor's seat, his elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled and chin resting on top of them.

So Anderson had returned to give a little pep talk to his peers. He recalled Nick mentioning early on during his transfer that Anderson was always highly involved with the Warblers, so it didn't surprise Sebastian overtly that this would be the tactic he would choose to make an argument. After all, Blaine was a vocal person: if he had something to say, he would say it, rather than let it fester in the darkness as some of the guys Sebastian had dated would have.

He's different, Sebastian decided at last, looking musingly towards the door as it slid open slowly.

Trume entered, all but staggering, his face still an unpleasant shade of sickness. "I heard -- Anderson -- here?"

"Correct," Sebastian said and then, taking pity on the Warbler, rose and walked over to him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. Trume almost staggered against him before sinking into one of the leather couches, curling up into himself. "You look awful," Sebastian added succinctly.

Trume laughed hoarsely. "Feel worse," he said. "God, I hate the flu. What happened?"

"Nothing serious," Sebastian assured, sitting on the arm of a couch opposite him. "Just some accusation or another that my only concern is degrading the Warbler's reputation."

"Sounds serious," Trume pointed out, coughing into his sleeve.

Sebastian tilted his head at him, curious. "And why would that be?"

"Warblers--" Trume paused to cough again, then steeled himself with a breath, "can vote members out that break the rules."

"I broke no rules," Sebastian said.

"You broke the standards," Trume reminded with an almost bitter smile before hacking again.

Sebastian grimaced and looked away. "You sound horrible."

"Feeling it, too. But that's not the point."

"No, it's not," Sebastian agreed. "So what do you suggest, my sick friend?"

"Apologize."

Sebastian laughed. "He's a virgin, Trume, not an idiot."

"He's also willing to accept -- heartfelt apologies," Trume said, coughing. "God damn, I hate being sick."

"And how would you know this?"

Trume shook his head, pressing his fist against his forehead and closing his eyes. "Just apologize, make it sincere, and it'll work out."

Then he coughed, long and hard, and after listening for a few minutes Sebastian sighed before standing again, wrapping an arm underneath his shoulders and hauling him to his feet.

"Come on. You should head back to your dorm."

"Thanks," Trume muttered, walking shakily beside him.

Sebastian disliked sick people on principle, but even he knew better than to treat Trume -- a potentially powerful enemy -- poorly.


	35. Chapter 35

"Someone's up early this morning," Kurt murmured as Blaine continued to kiss down his throat lightly. He wrapped his arms around Blaine's shoulders after a moment, letting his fingers flex against the warm, broad expanse of his t-shirt. "What's the occasion?"

Blaine was silent for a long time, simply continuing his trail around Kurt's neck until he reached the underside of his jaw, working his way carefully up to his mouth, kissing the corner first and detouring to touch a teasing peck to the tip of Kurt's nose. Kurt wrinkled it and grabbed Blaine's collar to prevent him from moving any higher, pulling him impatiently down for a proper morning kiss. He had morning breath and knew that Blaine had it, too, but right then Kurt honestly couldn't care. Even the thigh Blaine had pressed against his own and the almost suggestive way he was pressed against his chest didn't concern Kurt, despite the half-open doorway. If Finn walked in, he could be traumatized for all Kurt cared. The threat of his dad's presence was feeble against the overwhelming desire to just hold Blaine forever.

Eventually, Blaine pulled away, half-panting against his neck. "You amaze me, Kurt," he whispered.

"You're pretty amazing yourself," Kurt said, smiling and threading his fingers through the untamed nest that was Blaine's wonderfully ungelled hair. He let the moments stretch languorously between them, belatedly realizing that it was only five o'clock in the morning. "Why up so early?"

Blaine lifted his head slightly, hovering over Kurt, and frowned a little. "I . . . Sorry. I should've just waited."

"No, no, I liked it," Kurt assured, pressing a firm kiss to Blaine's mouth when he continued looking uncertainly at Kurt. "Seriously, Blaine. You're wonderful."

"I just . . . I wanted you to know that despite Sebastian and everything that's gone on there, he could never take me away from you. I love you. I love you so much, Kurt. I don't even want to think about what life would be like without you."

"Then don't," Kurt said, his smile turning a little softer, a little warmer as he nuzzled Blaine's neck. "Just enjoy the fact that I'm truly, utterly, and completely yours."

Chuckling slightly, Blaine rested his head properly on Kurt's shoulder, relishing the closeness with him. Kurt closed his eyes, carding his fingers through Blaine's curls, and had almost drifted off again before Blaine spoke. His voice was soft as he asked hesitantly, "Should I . . . talk to James and Sadie more?"

Kurt continued his motions for several long moments, debating that. "I think . . . you should do whatever you feel most comfortable with," he said slowly. "And if it's not talking to them much, then don't. It's more awkward if you have to force it then if you just let them be."

Blaine pulled back slightly, looking down at Kurt with his brow furrowed and his eyes visibly indecisive despite the darkness of the room. "That's kind of how my parents treat things, you know," he said at last, his voice delicate and his gaze soft even as his mouth curled slightly in bitterness.

Kurt reached up his fingers, apologetically cupping Blaine's cheek and swiping his thumb over the warm, dry skin. "I just mean that you shouldn't force more interaction with them than the three of you are comfortable with," he amended. "They're friends, Blaine, not parents. Friends come and go. If you're really not into them and they're really not into you. . . ." He shrugged slightly.

Blaine smiled ruefully. "You make it sound like I'm dating them."

Rolling his eyes slightly, Kurt pulled him back down for a kiss. "They'll come to you if they're interested," he said once he had turned his head slightly, his cheek pressed against Blaine's. Blaine rubbed his cheek up and down slowly, his eyes closed contentedly. "You just have to worry about reciprocating that."

"Shouldn't I be the one reaching out to them? After all the times I ignored them?"

"You should be willing to hear them out," Kurt corrected, "and at least give whatever they want serious thought. I mean, yes, you could say that you technically owe them, but sometimes life isn't fair and people just have to learn to live with compromises. This is a compromise."

"I'm not sure I like the idea of leaving them hanging even more."

"What you did," Kurt said, looking at Blaine seriously as Blaine shifted so he was once more hovering over him, "was completely understandable. You were scared, Blaine, and you had reason to be. No one thinks rationally after that kind of thing, and I'm sure they'll understand that. They've probably already come to terms with it somewhat on their own."

Blaine was silent for a long time, just looking down at him with almost baleful eyes, before he sighed and slid down beside him, an arm wrapped around his waist firmly. "Thanks," he sighed, burying his nose against Kurt's side.

Kurt smiled slightly. "Any time."

* * *

"Are you really sure that this isn't just some creative attempt to get into your pants?" Kurt asked, rubbing moisturizer over his cheeks.

It was a much more respectable hour in the morning -- nine instead of ten -- and once both were awake Kurt had seen the determined shine in Blaine's eyes as he spoke. Whatever unspoken demons he had been wrestling with previously seemed to have dissolved, replaced solely by determination to eradicate them entirely. Kurt, while supportive, was also a bit skeptical about the plan.

Sebastian had texted Blaine asking him if he wanted to meet at the Cornerstone, and while the offer seemed like an automatic 'no' from Kurt, Blaine differed by thinking that he should go to meet him.

"I mean, it's kind of obvious that's what he's wanted for a while now," Kurt went on. "How can you know this isn't a trap?"

"Kurt, that's exactly why you're coming with me. To make sure none of that happens."

Kurt blinked, turning around on his seat at the vanity to regard Blaine, who was sitting cross-legged at the foot of Kurt's bed, looking unperturbed. "So we're confronting him together now, are we?"

"You're my boyfriend," Blaine said firmly. "Maybe it'll do Sebastian some good to see that as well as hear it again." Then, shrugging a little, he added, "I'm not going to force you to come, but it would be really great if you would."

"I'll come," Kurt assured, then blushed without meaning to at the wording. He and Blaine had been more . . . open-minded about sexual discussions lately, long since having surpassed the fingers-in-ears-while-singing phase that Kurt had initially gone through. It had taken time and gentle persuasion, but at last they were able to discuss relatively freely issues like sex without Kurt blushing and sputting uncontrollably. Well. He still blushed, but at least he could have a dignified conversation, pink cheeks and all.

And truthfully, the idea of having sex wasn't really as bad as Kurt had originally thought it would be. The mechanics of it still made him cringe as he thought about what it all entailed (and oh, how he had longed for the days of simple blissful Broadway romances after readingthose pamphlets). Initially he had been so mortified by the prospect that he couldn't think about it. He wanted brain bleach, he wanted a complete and utter return to his non-sexual world, and no mention of the topic ever again.

There was a serious difference between reading about it and having Blaine's fingers grazing the bare skin of his stomach, or his lips attached to an exposed collarbone, or feeling Blaine's weight pressing down on him as he laid partially on top of him. The entire experience of having Blaine as a boyfriend had been wonderful and lovely and thrilling, and it made Kurt reconsider all those pamphlets from a less critical standpoint. Clearly, no matter how awful the wording made it seem, there had to be something attractive in it all for gay people to have sex. They wouldn't bother if it was just as gross and awful and invasive as Kurt had thought it was.

Blaine had shown him gradually that maybe there was a serious connection between love and sex, not simply that one lead to the other, whichever way being unknown. Sometimes people had sex thinking they would fall in love afterwards; Kurt cringed to think what his relationship with Blaine would be like now if that had been the case with him. It made his blood boil slightly whenever he thought about Sebastian wanting to have sex with Blaine, especially since it would just be that: mindless, completely meaningless physical pleasure. The thought of anyone sharing that with Blaine made Kurt's heart ache, but he found himself curiously unopposed to the thought of himself being the other partner.

Some guys think that sex is just sex.

Sebastian was one of them. Blaine was not. Blaine took time to make sure that everything he did that was even remotely sexual had fair warning. Cuddling was fair grounds for anything, but occasionally Blaine would just lie on top of him and kiss him that way, and it was so much more intimate than when they did it in any other position. He would trace his fingers more under the shirt, always slow and cautious, never venturing too far in any direction beyond the edges of clothing. He wanted Kurt to be comfortable and Kurt was, but he also found himself craving more each time that Blaine pulled away. It was natural, he supposed; being with Blaine more often just made him want Blaine all the more.

At first Kurt had been worried that it meant he was obsessed with Blaine and, as with any unbalanced relationship, they would fall apart because of it. Then he had started realizing that he wasn't obsessing over Blaine: he was simply falling in love with him even more, and the more he did so the more he wanted to share with him, learn from him and even teach him where he could. Kurt loved Blaine to a degree that it literally hurt sometimes when he thought of what would happen once Blaine eventually moved on. (Surely, surely Blaine wouldn't stay with him forever, and while during the earliest months of their relationship Kurt had simply languished in the fact that he had a boyfriend, slowly the reality that Blaine would probably move on eventually began to wear on him.)

Looking at Blaine now from the corner of his eye, Kurt found it difficult to believe that he would leave. There was just such love in his gaze, open and unafraid, available for the world to see but meant purely for Kurt. Barely restraining the urge to turn around and ravish him until he understood just how truly amazing he had made Kurt's life just by being, Kurt focused on his routine.

Blaine was still grinning at him a little, an upward curve of his mouth that was barely perceptible, when Kurt's dad knocked on the door jamb. Kurt jolted out of his pleasant reverie, craning his neck over his shoulder to look at his dad. There was a certain gruff uncertainty to his appearance, as though he too suspected the gradual changes Kurt's relationship with Blaine had gone through, but he simply cleared his throat and looked over them both with steady eyes.

"You boys staying out of trouble?" he asked at last.

Kurt rolled his eyes, not deeming the question fit for a more serious answer. His dad had already given him the talk and essentially given Kurt permission to basically go for it when he was ready and he had found the right person. Of course, Kurt knew that he was still his dad and thus entitled to feel a little out of place around Kurt's boyfriend, but he should at least know at that point that Kurt and Blaine would sit in the same room together without parental supervision twenty-four seven.

"We're fine, Dad," he said, mostly to placate his dad's protective fatherly instinct. "I'm just finishing up with this and Blaine's planning."

His dad blinked and turned his attention to Blaine. "Planning what?"

"How to take down this bas -- exceptionally not nice person we met at Dalton Academy," Kurt amended, not wanting to swear in front of his dad if he could help it.

His dad's eyebrows climbed up his forehead, resting somewhere near his nonexistent hairline. It was almost comical; Kurt barely repressed a laugh. Blaine was simply looking at Kurt's dad in thoughtful silence, his legs folded and his hands resting on his knees almost like a meditating monk. Kurt rolled his eyes inwardly at the thought of Blaine as a monk.

"Wait, someone's bothering you guys?" Kurt's dad said, breaking into his thoughts.

"You could say that," Kurt said, shaking his head slightly as he capped the last bottle. "He's just really . . . pushy."

"Do I need to speak with this guy?" his dad asked, swelling importantly.

"It's really not something you can help, Mr. Hummel," Blaine said apologetically, speaking for the first time since Kurt's dad had entered the room. He was a solid, confident presence seated on the edge of Kurt's bed, not expressing the slightest discomfort with where he was or what he was talking about. "Just one of those high school dramas we need to sort out on our own."

Kurt's dad looked between the two of them with open skepticism. "This isn't another Karofsky, is it? Because I don't care if it's you, Kurt, or you, Blaine, I don't want anyone bullying you guys because of that."

"He's not a Karofsky," Kurt said. It was true: at this point, Kurt was beginning to think that Karofsky was normal and Sebastian the extreme, the one person he hated more than anyone else right now. He would never be cozy and friendly with Karofsky, but he might at least be able to hold a civil conversation with him. Sebastian, on the other hand, he would be fortunate not to castrate before senior year was over. Judging by the sentiments Blaine had already expressed, he didn't seem like he would intervene, and the temptation was nearly unbearable for Kurt. Legality still stood, however, so he sulked in private about the more violent ways he could eliminate Sebastian's inflated ego and the non-violent possibilities he could openly contemplate.

"Whatever this guy's doing to you -- either of you -- is wrong."

"We'll take care of it, Dad. Promise."

His dad made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. "If we're having an intervention, just remember that Carole and I are going to Washington pretty soon and it needs to happen now rather than later." He gave them both a pointed look, but Kurt and Blaine held firm. Kurt was silently baffled about why he had not told his dad more about Sebastian, but right now did not seem like the right time to discuss it. He wanted his dad and Carole to enjoy their time in Washington D.C. as much as possible. His dad had finally decided to run for office against Coach Sylvester's campaign and that was important to him, so this Washington trip was consequently important as well. While Kurt suspected fireworks from Coach Sylvester and was even somewhat fearful for his dad's health with all the additional stress, he also had faith that his dad could draw his own limits (and that Carole would set them down firmly if he didn't).

The visit wasn't exactly a vacation, but Kurt still wanted them to enjoy their time there as much as possible. It wasn't often that people from Lima, Ohio traveled anywhere, let alone to the capital itself. He didn't want them to be thinking about how their son and his boyfriend were dealing with Sebastian back at home. It would probably cancel the visit entirely if they knew the extent of Sebastian's wrongdoings, especially his publicizing of the Sadie Hawkins dance.

So why would he even bother trying to meet with Blaine again? Kurt wondered, his thoughts momentarily drifting back to that issue.

Then: Why would Blaine accept?

Pushing those thoughts aside, because Blaine had already given his reasons -- he needed to resolve this with Sebastian personally somehow, and what better way than a face-to-face meeting with Kurt present -- Kurt focused his attention on his dad. "We can handle this," he assured him, trying to infuse as much confidence and nonchalance in his voice as possible. He wanted to sound strong enough to face it on his own but also as if the issue was not serious to merit much interest (even if it completely was). His dad eyed him suspiciously for several moments, looking over at Blaine as well, before at last sighing.

"Just tell us if it gets to be too much, okay? I don't want either of you boys in trouble over something Carole and I could have helped with."

"We will," Kurt said, not letting himself think about the latter too much. Getting in trouble was something that seemed almost inevitable with Sebastian. Every confrontation insofar had ended either in fists or more ties to privacy severed. Kurt wanted to say with certainty that this one would not, but he couldn't know until they were there.

His dad nodded as though he accepted this, however, and looked over them once last time before turning and saying, "There's breakfast downstairs," and walking away. Kurt waited until he heard his footsteps end downstairs before sighing slightly.

"Come on," Blaine said, suddenly standing beside him. "Sebastian said noon, and it takes a couple hours to get out to Westerville, so. . . ."

Kurt nodded and stood up. "Let's just hope this works," he said, smiling bracingly while Blaine slid his fingers into Kurt's and gave them a squeeze.

"Let's."

* * *

Sebastian looked . . . more mature, somehow, with his Dalton Academy blazer on and the full regalia in place, rather than just the white shirt. He sat comfortably in his seat with a coffee in front of him, seeming completely at ease in his environment. He looked up as Blaine and Kurt entered the coffee shop and then aside, silently allowing them the opportunity to walk away if they wished. Blaine could feel Kurt bristling slightly beside him with the unspoken urge to snap at Sebastian. He gave Kurt's fingers another light squeeze to assure him that no matter what Sebastian said, there was no way he could convince Blaine to leave Kurt. He seemed a little placated by the gesture, if only minutely: his gaze was still fiercely trained on the other Warbler as they sat down across from him.

"It looks like I owe you two an apology," Sebastian said in a tone Blaine had never heard him use before. It sounded like . . . well, his real voice. Like every other voice he had used was reserved for flirtatious and hell-raising Sebastian and this was his actual voice. It was normal and polite with only the faintest hint of a drawl at the edges, nothing like the open contempt he held most times. Blaine blinked, surprised, but Kurt's gaze remained flat, unmoved. "What I did was inappropriate," he went on, taking a sip of his coffee as though to brace himself before setting it back down, "and I'm sorry that it damaged so many people." He looked pointedly at Blaine, strange blue eyes seeming genuinely apologetic.

Kurt cleared his throat before he spoke, deliberately drawing Sebastian's gaze back to him. There was still the tiniest of haughty smiles at the edges of his lips as he looked at him with invitation plain in his expression. Go on.

"While we appreciate your openness to apologize," Kurt said, his tone balancing on the edge of razor-sharp accusation and unnerving politeness, "it takes more than a few words to reverse that sort of damage."

"I know," Sebastian said. Blaine would have choked if he had taken a sip of his own coffee, but fortunately he hadn't. Sebastian agreeing with Kurt was . . . bizarre.

Kurt's eyes narrowed as he seemed to draw the same conclusion. "What do you want from us?" he asked at last, blunt and to the point.

"I want you two to stop being so uptight," Sebastian said simply, shrugging a little as though he had made an undeniably witty retort. "You need to let loose a little. It's suffocating just being around you half the time. I can feel my sexual appeal diminishing, and yet you're still hot." He let his gaze linger on Blaine, thoughtful, considerate.

Kurt practically growled beside him, moving his arm so that it wasn't just resting beside Blaine but was actually wrapped around his own, holding it tightly. "He's taken," he said stiffly.

Sebastian laughed, open, soft, and easy. "I know," he said simply.

There was a long pause. Blaine half-expected Kurt to tear Sebastian's head off, but he was still beside him, almost visibly fuming. Blaine made sure to keep his hand on Kurt's knee, rubbing soothing circles around it. After an uncountable period of time Kurt sighed inaudibly and cast him a silent look that asked So what do we do now?

"You two should know that I didn't mean for the whole Dave Karofsky thing to spread so far," Sebastian went on casually. "I just wanted you to know that I knew, but a couple of his friends overheard and. . . ." He shrugged, expression neutral.

"Outing someone is terrible," Blaine said bluntly. Sebastian lifted an eyebrow, looking at him with his head tilted slightly to one side.

"So you would prefer it if people stayed in the closet their whole lives?"

"Some people aren't safe being out," Kurt interrupted, voice fierce.

Sebastian turned an amused smile on him. "You were never one of those, were you? I bet everyone already knew by the time you walked into high school that you were one of us."

Blaine had to tighten his grip and literally hold Kurt back from standing up, knocking over the table and pummeling Sebastian into the floor. The tension was so clear that Kurt's arm was trembling slightly.

"You have no idea what it's like to be out of the closet at McKinley," Kurt said, his voice low and quick with agitation. "You have no idea what it means to be terrified to be who you are because there's no way around it. How can you possibly say that it's better, that it's safe for someone to be out when it could get them seriously hurt?"

Sebastian's expression was briefly opaque before he looked at Blaine almost pointedly. "Kind of exactly like how your outing resulted in the Sadie Hawkins dance night," he pointed out.

Blaine made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. "Yes, Sebastian, kind of like that." He hated thinking about that night in any great detail -- mostly, it was a blur, sounds and images and sensations he would never be able to forget -- and having Sebastian bring it up now was definitely not why he had come here.

So why did you come here?

Looking at Kurt, Blaine smiled slightly to himself. Because I have a boyfriend, and Sebastian needs to know that.

"If you're going to be gay," Sebastian said at last, "at least don't try to hide it."

"We can't all be like you, Sebastian," Kurt pointed out scathingly. "Some people have too many problems in their own life to handle another."

"I think I honestly did him a favor," Sebastian said with a completely serious expression on his face.

Silence. Then, Kurt blew out his breath in one go and said incredulously, "You think you were right in outing Karofsky."

Sebastian nodded as though he was speaking to a slow child. "Yes. He needs to come to terms with things and I'm all for one more gay man in this washed up town." He flashed a brilliant smile, and Kurt actually growled as he tightened his grip on Blaine's arm.

"Find someone else, Sebastian," Kurt said at last, shaking his head. "We're not interested."

"Oh, but I'm interested," Sebastian pointed out, as though this mattered significantly more. "You guys just need to live a little," he insisted. "Then you'd understand what this sort of attraction is."

"Pure, animalistic lust," Kurt deadpanned.

Sebastian grinned, all teeth. "Precisely. You know where I think you would fit right in, Hummel? Scandals."

Blaine made a choking sound. "Scandals? Are you serious? First you try and flirt with me, then you want me to go to a gay--"

"I met the man of my dreams on the dance floor there," Sebastian interrupted smoothly. "If you two are so infatuated with one another, I can't imagine you'd have any problem with letting loose a little."

"Man of your dreams," Kurt repeated dubiously. "Are you still together?"

Sebastian grinned and pretended to look morose. "Sadly, no. We broke up . . . oh, twenty minutes after we met."

Kurt and Blaine stared, and Sebastian laughed.

"See, that's your problem. I won't force you to go, but I think you'd be surprised at how much nicer it is actually being yourself instead of acting like you've got a pole stuck in your ass."

Kurt snarled and again Blaine was forced to restrain him before they caused a scene. "Sebastian, we're underage," Blaine said, hoping to put an end to the argument.

Sebastian flashed him a grin and slid something in a napkin across the table to him. Blaine frowned and, ignoring the way Kurt's grip tightened on his left arm, reached out and flipped the top off. Fake IDs. Of course.

"Consider it a more tangible 'I'm sorry,'" Sebastian said, smirking slightly. "I'll see you around," he added, standing up before Blaine could pass the cards back or Kurt could stop cutting circulation off in his arm to say something. He walked out of the Cornerstone smoothly, disappearing before Blaine could so much as call after him that he couldn't just walk away from all this like nothing had happened.

Then he sighed. Wasn't that exactly what he had wanted? And Sebastian did seem sincere at points, even if he was still questionably sincere at others. . . .

And Blaine really needed Kurt to stop cutting off the circulation to his upper arm because it was actually starting to hurt.

"Hey, Kurt?" he said.

Kurt grunted but didn't loosen his grip, staring at the cards.

"Kurt, ah, you're kind of cutting off the circulation in my arm. . . ."

For seven seconds, Kurt didn't react. Then he sighed and released his fingers, rubbing them apologetically around the vice-like circle. "Sorry," he said.

Blaine patted his hand. "Don't worry." Then, looking at the cards, he sighed as he slipped them into his pocket. "I'll get rid of them back at the house," he said simply. "I don't want someone seeing me throw out fake IDs here."

Kurt nodded in agreement, still looking thoroughly disgruntled. Blaine gave his arm a squeeze. "Hey. Are you okay?"

Kurt huffed. "Fine."

"No, you're not," Blaine murmured, leaning in to press a questioning kiss against his cheek. Kurt hissed slightly and swatted at him, looking anxiously around.

"Blaine."

"What?" Blaine asked innocently, perplexed. "Am I not allowed to show my boyfriend how much I love him?"

Kurt flushed slightly, a pink hue that crept up his cheeks magnificently, before shaking his head. "I just . . . more private? Please?"

Blaine sighed but gave in, giving his hand a tight squeeze instead. "All right. But as soon as we get home. . . ." He trailed off, grinning.

Kurt huffed again and rolled his eyes. "And who said I wanted to make out with you?" he asked primly.

Blaine laughed.

* * *

That was exactly what ended up happening, though, and Kurt only just remembered at four that he had glee club auditions for the West Side Story production to attend and he really should go to those now before he let himself be distracted and lost track of time.

It was hard to focus right now, though, with Blaine's warm hand resting on his stomach and his over balanced on his shoulder as he pressed leisurely kisses against Kurt's lips, just dozens of soft, quick pecks that blended into one another. Kurt hummed in satisfaction before inwardly berating himself. Focus. West Side Story auditions.

His fingers, wound in the back of Blaine's shirt, were uncooperative. At last, with a disappointed sigh, he managed to coordinate what his mind wanted and what his body wanted and tug at Blaine's shirt. It still took several attempts before Blaine backed away, a frown creasing his features as he looked down at Kurt, backing away slightly further when Kurt nudged his hip slightly.

"Glee club auditions are in a half hour," Kurt said apologetically. "I need to get ready."

Blaine hummed, sitting back on his haunches and looking over Kurt. "Must you?" he asked.

Kurt nearly caved. Nearly. It was unfair how convincing Blaine's persuasive tones were. It didn't help that the air felt chilled and empty without Blaine pressed up against him.

What are the odds you'll be Tony, anyway? Or any character? You sound like a girl, how are you supposed to play a male role?

But Kurt pushed those thoughts away because he had never let similar ones discourage him before. If he was going to dream, it might as well be big and for things he actually cared about, not just minor roles that would leave him only partially satisfied.

"Come with me," he offered instead.

Blaine blinked, then tilted his head slightly at him.

"You should," Kurt insisted, now tugging on his hands as he stood up and tried to get Blaine to do the same. "I mean, you could audition, too -- there's nothing that says you had to sing at sectionals to be allowed to audition and--"

"Kurt," Blaine broke in quietly, looking up at him with serious, dark eyes. "I . . . I don't know. What about the whole . . . performance thing?"

Kurt frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked, holding Blaine's hands instead of tugging them.

"I just . . . I don't know what my head will be like if I perform," Blaine admitted.

Kurt sat down beside him and cupped his face in his hands, resting their foreheads together. "You'll be fine, Blaine," he assured, his thumbs running in meaningless circles. Blaine made an unconvinced noise and Kurt shook his head a tiny bit. "You will. We'll practice at it, but for now, please just audition with me."

Blaine opened and closed his mouth a few times, seeming on the verge of protesting without an explanation, before at last sighing heavily. "Your wish is my command," he said simply, letting Kurt all but haul him to his feet.

Kurt grinned. "Now, why can't you just have that attitude when we're out shopping for clothes?"

Blaine wisely kept his mouth shut.

* * *

The strangest thing about the fake IDs, Blaine thought, was not that Sebastian had given them to him. It was that he couldn't throw them away. For one, he knew that Burt and Carole would find out and then he and Kurt would be in so much trouble and probably banned from sharing the same room for life. That was probably Sebastian's intent, Blaine thought sourly, looking at the two cards in curious speculation.

He had considered burning that, but it wouldn't be a perfect job and someone would definitely walk in on him and then he would have even more awkward questions to answer. Shredding, burying, even flushing down the toilet all seemed like similarly bad ideas. At last, he simply pocketed the cards and let them be, only remembering them later that night when he and Kurt were lying in Kurt's bed and they pressed against his hip.

Kurt pulled back from another wonderful kiss in confusion when he felt the sharp plastic jab against his hip. "What . . . ?"

Blaine fished for the cards and held them up, smiling sheepishly. "I don't know what to do with them," he admitted in a whisper. "I can't just . . . throw them away or your parents will find out, and I don't know any other way to dispose of them that won't look suspicious."

Kurt gently took the cards from his hand, frowning thoughtfully as he considered them before delicately putting them under his pillow. "For now," he said softly, "we'll ignore them. I can't believe Sebastian gave them to us in the first place," he added, voice rising and vehement.

"Hey, hey, shh," Blaine said, rubbing soothing circles on his stomach. "Calm down. Don't think about him right now."

"How can I not?" Kurt grumbled, but he nevertheless obliged and leaned down to peck Blaine's lips before leaning back with a contented sigh.

A blissful eternity passed as the two languished in the peace. Blaine was happy with how the West Side Story auditions had gone: with the exception of the Rachel and Mercedes auditions, everything was fun and the environment energetic. Kurt was enthusiastic and pleasant, and the entire glee club had turned up to fill in some slot or another. Blaine had hesitated to audition when the moment came, half-determined to just walk away and make up an excuse that he couldn't, but then Kurt had just looked him in the eye with the softest smile and said, "Go out there and sing, Blaine."

Sing he did. Something's Coming had never held such an appeal for him as he fell into the rhythm of it, dancing around the stage, half-wishing he had a couch just so he could leap up onto its back. Kurt would have teased him mercilessly for it, but once he was on stage and singing and the music started playing it was like he became himself again. The second he finished, all but panting with the exhilaration, he spent just long enough to smile politely at the three judges -- Artie, Ms. Pillsbury, and Coach Beiste -- before practically leaping back stage and tackling Kurt in a hug, who eagerly reciprocated.

It was not the answer to all their problems -- Blaine still had no idea how he would cope with spotlights and larger scale bands -- but for now, he was content and pleased and wonderfully energized.

"Maybe we should use those," he mused, his voice soft and still glowing in the aftermath of the audition.

Kurt tilted his head slightly at him and frowned. "It's illegal."

"So is drinking underage, but we did that, too," Blaine pointed out, grinning cheekily.

Kurt flicked his nose slightly before shaking his head. "You're incorrigible," he whispered fondly, while Blaine grunted and rubbed at his nose. Kurt tugged his hand away and pressed a quick kiss to the tip, making Blaine blush slightly at the sheer sweetness of the gesture. "I'll think about it," he said at last, nuzzling against Blaine's shoulder, clearly ending the conversation.

Blaine sighed but wrapped his arms around him, nodding. They had long since broken Burt's unspoken rule about distance but in some ways, Blaine was relieved. There was just something about everything that seemed more powerful than ever, as though -- as the saying went -- something was coming. Something big.

Kurt's breath was soft and even against his shoulder, already mostly asleep. Blaine briefly considered staying awake to consider the IDs in greater consideration but Kurt murmured, "Stop thinking so much; it's keeping me awake," and Blaine simply smiled and closed his eyes, content.


	36. Chapter 36

"So, what should we do with them?"

Kurt sighed. For the past two days, little else had occupied his and Blaine's late night discussions beyond the ID cards Sebastian had unhelpfully forced on them. For his part, he just wanted to dispose of them as quickly and neatly as possible without arousing any suspicion from either Carole or his dad. Finn would probably blackmail him about the cards for months, but at least he wouldn't impose restrictions on him for not just breaking house rules but breaking the law.

Blaine, on the other hand, was intrigued by the cards. He said that it would be easier and quicker to just go to Scandals, find a nice inconspicuous corner to drop them off in, and then spend the rest of the night back at home safely relieved of the burden. His plan was appealing in some regards: Kurt wanted a simple route out of the responsibility of carrying them. However, it also implied going into a gay bar, and Kurt was fairly certain that that would get him grounded for life if his dad ever found out.

Then again, you and Blaine practically sleep together every night and he doesn't care about that, even though he must know by now, his logical side pointed out.

Sleep together made Kurt's face flush involuntarily, but thankfully the darkness prevented it from showing too much.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, when a suitable period of silence had passed without response.

Kurt shook his head slightly, fingering the cards in his hand. He had no idea what to do with them, if he was being honest with himself. All of the mundane solutions were too likely to be interrupted by either his dad or Carole. The only method insofar that would actually work was Blaine's suggestion about the gay bar, yet it still entailed illegally going to a gay bar and dropping off fake ID cards.

Rubbing his forehead slightly, Kurt slid the cards underneath his pillow once again. He didn't know what to do with them. He just wanted them gone.

Blaine seemed to sense that he wasn't in the mood to talk about it, draping his arm around Kurt's waist and cuddling up close to him. Kurt huffed a little as he settled himself in, already long past the stages of worrying over whether Kurt's dad would walk in and yell at him for stealing his son's innocence. More educated than Kurt but also a gentleman through and through, Blaine would never harmfully break Kurt's dad's rules. Just productive rule-breaking.

Resting his forehead against the side of Blaine's, Kurt mentally decided that tomorrow he would figure out what to do with the cards, come what may. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep and forget about them, and so that was what he did.

* * *

"I can't believe Berry won the part of Maria," Mercedes groused, moodily stabbing a piece of lettuce with her fork. "I mean, I know she has a good voice and everything but does she always have to get all the leads?"

"I thought you were amazing," Blaine said loftily, biting into an apple. "And I don't care what the judges said, you would make the best Tony ever," he added, nudging Kurt's ribs.

Kurt made a noncommittal sound. "Mmhm," he said aloud. "You should just be happy that I like you, Anderson, or our professional relationship would be in crisis mode by now."

Blaine pretended to look wounded. "I thought you supported me auditioning for the production?"

"I did," Kurt said, then let the unspoken until you actually beat me hang in the air.

"Hey," Blaine said, not wanting Kurt to look all distant and almost-moody like Mercedes was. "I'll go talk to the directors right now if this isn't okay. I don't want to be a part of any production if it makes you upset or feel ignored or--"

"You," Kurt said, putting such emphasis on the word Blaine had no choice but to stop speaking and pay attention, "are insufferably sweet."

Blaine paused, blinking.

"You two both rot my teeth out," Mercedes chimed in helpfully, breaking their stare. Kurt's eyes were light and intense, an unusual combination that left much for speculation. Blaine wished he could have taken a photo of them and looked it over for later evaluation, even if he knew there was no way he could put a name to all of the sense of go for it, I love you, this changes nothing there. "Where's Marcus, anyway? At least he doesn't make me feel like I need to floss every ten seconds."

"Sorry, baby girl, I was in line for the tots," Marcus said, sitting down beside her and setting a tray filled with tater tots down. Blaine grinned at Marcus while Kurt shook his head slightly in fond amusement.

"Still obsessed?"

"Hey," Mercedes said, pointing a tot at him importantly before tossing it in her mouth. "You had a boyfriend before I did. You never knew what it was like, watching your beau run around with his new best friend."

Blaine looked at Kurt curiously. The latter had flushed slightly and looked between apologetic and almost embarrassed. "I didn't . . . we were just friends then, 'Cedes. It wasn't like we were boyfriends the day we met."

"Oh, boo, you were in denial so deep I had to start a riot just to get your attention. Do you even remember the time we went to the Breadstix, besides talking with Blaine here?"

Blaine blushed slightly, although he was mercifully able to hide it behind his apple as he took a large bite from it.

Kurt was clearly thinking hard of a response that would not sound like five-year-old logic. "You ordered tater tots," he said at last, with such resounding confidence that it would have been impossible to argue with him.

Mercedes laughed, threw one at him accusingly and ignored his yelp, before settling down to eat the tots more comfortably.

"You ignored my girl?" Marcus said, looking deeply surprised.

Kurt sighed. "I didn't mean to," he said, his tone apologetic. "I just . . . really didn't want to mess things up with you."

"You wouldn't have messed things up with me," Blaine assured softly.

"And there you two go again. Cavity-inducing. That's what you two are."

Kurt laughed. "You sound like Finn," he accused when he had gotten himself back under control.

"Maybe Finn's right," Mercedes said. Kurt cast her a dubious look and she laughed. "All right, all right. I know what you mean, white boy. Young love and all that." She smiled adoringly up at Marcus, who grunted in acknowledgment before smiling back.

Kurt looked at them -- Mercedes, who he had once commiserated with over the possibility that they would never find boyfriends, and Marcus, who was pretty much the most laidback comfortable guy at McKinley -- and smiled himself. He felt a hand squeeze his own slightly under the table, reminding him that there was a third party present, and gave Blaine's a squeeze in return.

I didn't forget you, he teased silently, chatting with Mercedes almost mindlessly. I just was admiring how far we've come.

* * *

"We will be completely responsible," Kurt drawled, doing his best not to think about the fake IDs sitting in his pocket right then. "Don't even worry about us, Dad. I promise to keep Finn away from the matches."

"You didn't even like that scarf," Finn grumbled from the living room, rubbing the back of his neck. "How can you blackmail me about something you didn't even like?"

"You burned one of my scarves," Kurt said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. It honestly needed no further explanation: Finn had been trying to get a nice fire in the fireplace when suddenly Kurt found one of his old scarves partially in flames. From then on Kurt had resolutely put Finn on a matches ban and extended it to include other appliances as need be. For someone who could catch a football under high pressure with two-hundred-pounders coming at him, Finn was terrible at doing anything that required more than three steps.

"Yeah, well, you boys take care of yourselves," Kurt's dad said gruffly, reaching forward and wrapping Kurt in a tight hug. He reciprocated, feeling briefly the pang of loss that he would be stuck in boring Lima, Ohio while his dad and stepmom toured D.C. The moment was gone as soon as he remembered that his dad had not retracted the invitation for Blaine to stay over even while they were gone.

I trust you two, was all he had said when Kurt had approached him at the shop after school on Friday hesitantly asking. He had not wanted to impose too much -- his dad had already been generous beyond expectation when it came to letting Kurt and Blaine have relative free reign -- but it had still made his heart ache slightly at the thought of Blaine returning to his parents for the six days that his dad and Carole would be gone. Trying to picture Blaine with Emily and Brian was not an easy task, an uncomfortable one at best and downright repulsive one at its core. Kurt hated Blaine's parents' indifference, and he knew that it was destroying Blaine far more effectively than open resistance or hostility would have. Keeping him away from the toxicity was immensely therapeutic for both of them: Blaine could let his shoulders down and relax, and Kurt could rest easy knowing that Blaine was right there and happy.

Still, not knowing whether his dad would agree to Blaine staying at their house while he was going had put Kurt on edge for the two days he had delayed asking him. At last, it was at Blaine's insistence that he would make arrangements with his parents soon that prompted Kurt to try. At worst, his dad would say that Blaine had to leave and Blaine would, and they would both forge through the week somehow. Living with his parents that long wouldn't kill Blaine, but it certainly wouldn't be considered 'progress.' The fact that Kurt's dad had just looked at him for a minute while rubbing his palms on a clean towel before saying gruffly, "He can stay," alleviated more unspoken tension that Kurt could put into words. He would not have to face the next parent-free week alone, then, and the prospect of spending that time with Blaine was admittedly kind of exciting.

They had always restricted themselves to an almost cordial relationship because of the frank possibility that either Kurt's dad or Carole would walk in on them at any moment. Despite Kurt's bravado when he was half-lost in the sensations, one logical portion of his brain remained on high alert, ever wary for that tell-tale knock or gasp that would let him know someone else had seen them lying on the bed together. They weren't scandalous in any regards, but Kurt simply could not feel comfortable doing anything more than maybe letting Blaine stroke his bare stomach a little while knowing that either his parents or his stepbrother would walk in.

Not only did he want to see what it would be like if Blaine let his fingers wander just a little more (and when had Kurt Hummel become this daring, he had no idea), he wanted to reciprocate that as well. He felt almost guilty for how little he had participated in the 'feeling each other up' department. Sometimes he wondered if Blaine ever worried about being unattractive in Kurt's eyes, even though he absolutely wasn't. Kurt knew that he had had his own trepidations at first, wondering if Blaine's caution was actually a sign of discomfort, perhaps even outright dislike. Blaine had quickly remedied that and since then Kurt had had no doubts. But he wanted Blaine to know that it was a two-way street and, for all his complacency, Kurt was interested, too. Very much so.

It was hard to bring himself back to the present with thoughts of Blaine wandering unhelpfully through his mind, but he managed. It helped that Blaine was out with Mercedes for the night while Kurt said his farewells to half of the Hudson-Hummels. He had originally wanted to go all the way back to Westerville and just meet up with James or Sadie and spend some time with them, but after Kurt assured him that he could come back for the night (and the unpleasant reminder that if he went out to Dalton, it would be a four-hour-drive total to get back) he had opted to spend time with Mercedes instead. Apparently Marcus was having a 'guys' night' with Puck, Mike, and Artie, although what they were doing Kurt didn't know. He also figured it was more wise and less confusing to just not ask.

So Kurt had left Blaine in Mercedes' hands, which probably meant she was either forcing him into outfits at the mall (highly probable: while Mercedes loved Marcus, Marcus wouldn't sit down for long shopping trips, whereas Blaine would) or giving him a facial. Kurt smiled inwardly to himself at the thought of either and made a mental note to laugh with Mercedes about it in private later. (Once he had comforted Blaine for following through with his gentlemanly duties, of course.)

"Bye, sweetie," Carole said, startling him as she wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. "I'll miss you. It'll be strange in D.C. without you to offer advice when I need it."

"My phone's always on," Kurt assured, squeezing her back before letting her go. Finn had already apparently bid his farewells as he lingered behind, looking at Kurt's dad and Carole with an expectant look.

"All right, all right," Kurt's dad said, shaking his head and clapping Finn almost playfully on the shoulder. "We'll get out of your hair. You two be good, okay? Call us if you need anything. My phone's always on, too, and I don't care what time of day it is or who's in trouble, you let me know. Okay?"

Kurt and Finn both nodded.

"Have fun," he said, holding open the door for Carole. It was dark outside -- just after six o'clock but, given the fact that it was early November in Ohio, normal -- but the pair had booked a late flight, so that was expected. With a last wave as they pulled out of the driveway, Kurt watched with Finn leaning against the doorway beside him as half the Hudson-Hummels drove off down the street.

They exchanged a look. Then Finn crossed his arms, as though he expected Kurt to start laying down ground rules, and lifted an eyebrow expectantly.

"No matches," Kurt said at once, prompting an indignant huff and Finn shutting the door behind them.

"Are you really that obsessed with those?"

"It was my scarf."

"You have like, thirty of those."

"That doesn't make them any less important."

It was almost normal, arguing with Finn while he started pulling out ingredients for cookies for something to do. The only difference was the quiet, a sudden, intense lack of noise that seemed pervasive and everywhere. Kurt suddenly wanted to call Mercedes despite being two hours before the appointed eight o'clock pick-up and demand that Blaine come home. Maybe another voice would make things seem a little less quiet, a little less like half of the world had suddenly vanished.

"You okay, dude?"

Kurt blinked, not having realized how out-of-it he must have looked for Finn to notice. "You look kind of pale. Don't tell me you're missing them already."

"I'm not," Kurt lied, because yes, he did miss them already. He missed that extra background noise. Everything seemed very, very quiet without it, and no matter what Kurt told himself -- honestly, if you can't handle this, how are you supposed to go to college next year? -- he couldn't help the memories of his dad's heart attack resurfacing. The house had felt the same way then as it did now, with the only exception being Finn's company. Back then, he had been utterly alone. This time, at least, he had someone, and soon enough Blaine would be home and everything would be okay.

Still, he drew in a slightly shuddering breath as he started working on the cookie batter (from scratch, of course). He nearly dropped the bowl on the floor when a firm hand clasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We'll be okay," he said, backing away into the living room and turning on the television. Within moments the familiar sounds of Call of Duty drifted into the kitchen and Kurt sighed slightly to himself.

We'll be fine.

Maybe if he just got all this melancholy out of his system now he would be okay for the rest of the week. Letting the moodiness overtake him, he started badly when a pair of warm arms suddenly wrapped around his waist, blinking out of his reverie and lifting his cheek from the palm of his hand.

"You owe me," Blaine murmured before pressing a light, warm kiss to his cheek. And oh, yes, Mercedes had definitely given him a facial because his cheek was even softer and smoother than usual and even though Kurt loved his slight stubble he loved this a lot, too.

"She hardly mistreated you," Kurt said teasingly, lifting a hand to trail across Blaine's cheek. Blaine closed his eyes, smiling slightly, and Kurt pecked his nose. "Why, I would even say she did you a favor."

"Ha," Blaine huffed, stepping aside. "You didn't have to sit through almost three hours of trying on different bow ties to see which one was the most 'me.'" He wrinkled his nose slightly. "I didn't know there was a specific brand that made me more me."

"Poor baby," Kurt cooed, turning the oven off as he pulled the final tray of cookies out. "Absolutely abhorrent, making someone try on bow ties."

"There were forty, Kurt. Forty. I counted," he added.

Chuckling slightly, Kurt led him away from the stove and towards the stairs. "Well, maybe you should consider just finding the right one on your own and telling her you've already found it the next time."

Blaine shuddered dramatically. "There's a next time?"

Shoving his shoulder slightly, Kurt shook his head and smiled at him. "Of course. I like what's she done," he said, cupping Blaine's face in his hands meaningfully.

Blaine pouted. "That has nothing to do with bow ties," he pointed out.

"How would you know?" Kurt countered, kissing him before he could retort.

* * *

"Oooh, we shouldn't be doing this," Kurt said, darting over to Blaine's side of the car the moment the ignition was off.

"We're just going to go in, drop off the cards somewhere, then leave," Blaine said, striding confidently ahead. "Come on. It'll be over before you know it."

Kurt was less certain, but he trusted Blaine and had decided that this was the quickest way of getting rid of the ID cards without alerting his dad or Carole. Granted, it would still mean venturing into a gay bar in the first place, a thought that made Kurt's heart race with anticipation, but at least he would only have to spend as long in the bar as it took to find a good hiding spot to ditch the cards at. A trash can would work just as well as a secluded corner, and once he found them he wouldn't have to worry about them or gay bars anymore.

Walking briskly beside Blaine, staring at the ID in his hand, Kurt shook his head to himself. "I don't know about this," he said doubtfully, while Blaine rolled his eyes and nudged him forward, holding the door.

"It'll be fine," he assured.

The first thing Kurt noticed about the bar was the pool table located conspicuously at the door. Four burly men were surrounding it, apparently in the midst of a just-begun game, while several others roamed freely nearby. There were women interspersed, too, although mostly Kurt's attention was stolen by the fact that a few dazed-looking couples were arm-in-arm and, in one bold pair's case, nuzzling each other's necks on a nearby bench.

"I can't believe we're in here," Kurt hissed under his breath to Blaine, who simply nudged him in the ribs until he passed over his ID to a morose-looking guy sitting on a stool. He knew that he looked nothing like the 'Chaz Donaldsworth' on his card, but his bubbly stage personality chose that moment to make an appearance. "Aloha!" he chirped, while Blaine looked down slightly and waited.

Aloha? Seriously? Sober up, Kurt, you haven't even had anything to drink.

And he had no intention of doing so, despite the fact that the bar was right there and the guy on the stool had let them through with a gloomy 'enjoy. It's drag queen Wednesday.'

Oh. Charming, Kurt thought, speculating on some of the more eccentric characters' identities aloud for the sake of trying not to look completely like an inexperienced ten-year-old. Even with Blaine beside him, he still felt out of place at the bar, way out of his league and completely lost. The heavy, almost musky scent around them was not helping matters, either, despite Blaine's comment that it was 'hardly scandalous.'

It didn't need to be scandalous -- they were at a gay bar. That was plenty scandalous for Kurt's Broadway-sy mind.

"Relax," Blaine murmured, noticing his discomfort and putting a soothing hand on his shoulder.

Kurt harrumphed. "How am I supposed to relax?"

Blaine tossed him a grin that made his eyes narrow almost wickedly before saying, "I could get you a drink."

Rolling his eyes to show him what he thought of that, Kurt gave him a slight shove. "You look over there, I'll look over here," he said dryly. "Meet at the bar in five. Then we're back home and I'm going to wash all of this--" he made an airy gesture at the bar as a whole "--off of me."

"Okay," Blaine agreed, grinning at him still in that mischievous way before turning and strolling off. Kurt frowned at his back, wondering what he had in mind, before shaking his head and hesitantly venturing forward.

Trash can. Trash can. That's all I need.

Scanning the ground hopefully, he bumped into at least four people, including Tina Turner, who cast him a look that clearly said, Watch where you're going, elf. Kurt shimmied around a couple of sweatier gentlemen and finally found the far wall. There were no trash cans in sight, however, and all of the corners currently seemed occupied by couples. Doing his best to amble with purpose, Kurt walked along the wall, nearly leaping out of his skin in surprise when he bumped into a familiar figure.

"Karofsky?" he asked, stunned, while the latter whirled around to face him.

Karofsky's eyes narrowed briefly as he opened his mouth before shaking his head. "Say anything, Hummel," he warned, his cap almost low over his eyes. "I'm not here to gain any publicity back at school."

"I'm not going to say anything," Kurt pointed out, slightly exasperated. "If anything, I'm trying to protect it."

Karofsky cast him a wary look, seeming deeply uneasy that he had caught Kurt there. "Yeah, well, you better not," he said gruffly at last. "Or I'll let everyone know you were at a gay bar," he added, smirking as though this resolved all problems.

"Right, as though I couldn't just turn that on you and say that you were at the same bar," Kurt pointed out, sidestepping as a drunken man swaggered into him before wandering back off. He grimaced in distaste as he gave Karofsky one last look before shaking his head. "Just know that I'm not your enemy, Karofsky. We're trying to help you."

Karofsky made a face. "We?"

"You know -- Santana, Blaine, and I."

Comprehension dawned on Karofsky's face but he still rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever," he said, shrugging it off. "Enjoy your time -- I'd keep a closer eye on your boyfriend if I were you," he added.

Kurt frowned and turned around, striding carefully through the crowd of mostly drunk people, including a few very drunk people that tried to shimmy up to him as he passed. He yelped and hurried past them until at last he was sitting on a stool at the bar, heart pounding once more.

"One shirley temple," the bartender said.

"Oh, no, I don't want --" Kurt began.

"Already paid for," the bartender said with a shrug. "Some guy came in already."

Frowning, wondering who had done that, Kurt scowled at the beverage before reluctantly accepting it in hand. At least if he wouldn't drink it, he would pretend to be interested. That might make him feel a little less like a virgin in a crowd of Santanas.

Oh stop. They're not all having sex. That's so stereotypical.

Then: This is a bar. Of course they are.

Looking around anxiously for Blaine, not wanting to leave the drink behind in case he stupidly forgot and then took a sip of some spiked version later, he frowned as the general dim lighting yielded no results. He half-considered just taking his drink with him and searching before discarding that as soon as he saw one of the really drunk guys bump into another guy hard enough to nearly topple them both. The last thing Kurt wanted was to ruin his night by getting shirley temple all over himself. Nothing quite like having to explain that one to Finn when they got back.

"Blaine, where are you?" he muttered under his breath, pretending to take a sip of the shirley temple.

"Hi," an all-too-familiar voice said, and despite his best efforts Kurt started hard enough to spill a little bit of the shirley temple over his hand.

Whirling around, he scowled deeply at the grinning Sebastian, shaking his head. "You," he said, putting as much venom and distaste into his voice as possible. "What do you think--"

"I'm glad you liked the drink. I figured that since you're the designated driver you'd be better off with something a little more lightweight." Tossing back a quaff of his beer bottle, Sebastian smirked at Kurt as he set it down. "Where's your boy, anyway? He get lost?"

"What did you do?" Kurt growled, gripping his fingers so tightly around the glass he briefly worried about shattering it.

Sebastian laughed, sliding smoothly out of reach as he glided to his feet. "What, you didn't think I'd be above lacing his water a little, would you?"

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Your boy's a lightweight. Had the bartender put in an order, gave it a little extra punch, and he ate it right up. Just like you did," he added, nodding at the shirley temple in Kurt's hand. "Although, I didn't put anything in yours. Figured your delicate system wouldn't be able to take it." He vanished into the crowd before Kurt could protest that his delicate heel would still make a fine memento driven into Sebastian's groin. Following him as quickly as he could without touching anyone was difficult. People kept swaying and moving and just generally making things impossible to keep straight. The low lighting didn't help, either.

You're out of your league, a small voice taunted in the back of his mind.

How could Blaine be so stupid to accept a drink? Kurt retorted, shaking his head to himself. Then again, he had accepted the drink rather unthinkingly as well, although he hadn't gone so far to drink it. He would definitely have to have a nice long talk with Blaine later about the importance of not accepting drinks from strangers (assuming that he could convince Blaine that he had not done the same, of course. There was no fun being a hypocrite when the other person knew he was a hypocrite). Especially strangers at a gay bar.

You shouldn't have left him alone, Kurt chided himself.

"Your boyfriend's over there," a gruff voice pointed out. Kurt looked up, blinked at Karofsky, then whirled around where he was pointing. "I'd keep an eye out, if I were you."

Kurt frowned at first, confused, then scowled as he spotted Blaine.

There was Blaine, all right. Clearly tipsy, if not completely drunk. And there was Sebastian, dancing with him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Of course, at a gay bar, no one would contest whether Sebastian was actually Blaine's (hard-won, devoted, loving) boyfriend or just some (horrible, evil, manipulative) jerk he had just met. Either way, Blaine didn't seem to mind. He was grinning so broadly he was almost laughing. Even though his movements were mostly steady, Kurt mentally re-evaluated his sobriety and pegged it a few notches lower than his first evaluation as he noticed the complete unconcern he expressed around Sebastian.

"Nice that you could join the party," Sebastian said while Kurt stormed over. He had to literally pry Blaine off Sebastian, wrapping his arms around his waist and tugging.

Blaine, misinterpreting the gesture, tugged forward briefly as though he would break free and go back to dance with Sebastian before enthusiastically -- if sloppily -- grinding back against Kurt.

Oh. Oh. Well then.

Kurt grabbed his hips to still him, blushing to his hairline, and did his best to push him away without actually knocking him to the floor. He partially succeeded: Blaine staggered aside, bumped back into Sebastian, and promptly resumed dancing front-to-front with him. He seemed either completely unaware or completely unconcerned that his dance partner was a cold-hearted bastard.

Sebastian grinned at Kurt over Blaine's shoulder, such a clear Bring it on invitation that Kurt decided that if he was going to sneak into a gay bar with his boyfriend, he was going to get him away from the jerk that had spiked his water. (With what, Kurt didn't know. It had to have been pretty potent, because there was no way sober Blaine would be within ten feet of Sebastian unless it was to reach a wary compromise. 'Compromising' that did not include grinding.)

Sashaying forward, Kurt slid neatly between Blaine and Sebastian, shimmying Blaine back to put distance between Sebastian and them. Sebastian circled, grinning with all his teeth, and managed to briefly distract Blaine by sidling up close to him, unconcerned with politeness that Blaine already had a dance partner, thank you very much. Kurt twirled Blaine once, forcing his attention back, and threw a look over his shoulder at Sebastian that said Bitch, please more clearly than if he had spelled it out in permanent marker. Then he snapped neatly back into place, his attention re-orienting on his boyfriend as he did so. Blaine was just bobbing his head along and half-smiling, his eyes alight and distinctly glazed.

Sebastian stayed near, his body rocking in time to the music, and Kurt did his best to ignore him while trying to nudge Blaine towards the exit.

"Come on," he urged, while Blaine grinned goofily at him and just continued his sloppy dance. "Did you at least get rid of the card?" Kurt asked belatedly.

"Of course he did," Sebastian answered, smirking while Kurt ignored him.

Noticing that Blaine's hands were empty and hoping that he hadn't thought to put it in his pocket, Kurt guided him a little more firmly towards the exit, at last managing to plant his hands on Blaine's waist in a way that he was guiding him forward without Blaine trying to turn around and dance with him. Blaine pouted about it, even digging in his heels slightly when it became clear that Kurt was steering them towards the door but eventually relenting with an almost boneless sigh.

"You're hopeless," Kurt said, wrapping a firm arm underneath his.

"'M not," Blaine grumbled, swaying slightly as he walked. "Man, I just . . . I just wanna live here. I wanna live here and make art. Make art and help people."

"Well, you could certainly light fires with your breath," Kurt said, laughing slightly in spite of himself. There was something about drunk Blaine that was -- he had to admit it but he couldn't help himself -- endearing. Even the way he stumbled slightly as he walked and leaned into Kurt was cute. Doing his best to keep his thoughts firmly focused, Kurt opened the back door to the car one-handed.

"All right, B, you just lie down and focus on not vomiting," Kurt said, prodding him towards the door. Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist instead, leaning against him and tilting his head towards Kurt's neck.

"Kiss me," he urged softly.

"No, come on," Kurt said, rolling his eyes and giving him a slightly harder nudge towards the open door.

"Kiss me, come on," Blaine repeated, leaning forward while Kurt tilted his head back.

"No, no, no. In you go. Don't you dare vomit on my floor," he added, just in case Blaine had forgotten.

Blaine sighed. "All right, all right," he mumbled, shimmying back into the car awkwardly. He was clearly still out of it, bumping into the back seat before managing to get horizontal.

Then he yanked Kurt in after him, working his way insistently up Kurt's neck with kisses, his hands flustered and frantic as they pawed at Kurt's torso. "No, Blaine, no, Blaine, stop it," he warned, trying to grab Blaine's wandering hands as he turned his head away from the quick, desperate kisses.

"Ooh! Cold hands, cold hands," he squeaked, Blaine's icy fingers resting briefly on his bare stomach as he jerked upward. "Blaine, Blaine! Stop it!"

"Come on, Kurt, just -- just let go. I-I want you. I want you so much. I just -- mmm," he said, trying to tug Kurt down.

"No, Blaine, no, come on, stop it," Kurt said sternly, pushing back up.

"Hey, hey, listen, I know -- I know you wanted this to be really special, but it doesn' matter where we are. It's about us. Just us. So why not--" he trailed off, gripping Kurt's hips insistently as he planted sloppy kisses against Kurt's cheeks, trying to reach his mouth.

"Right, it's about us," Kurt snapped, pulling away forcefully and breaking Blaine's drunken grasp as he jerked out of the car.

Blaine looked at him with furrowed brows and hurt, angry, embarrassed eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked, sounding deeply confused and accusatory at once.

"What's wrong is that I don't want to be intimate with someone who's not even sober enough to remember it in the morning!"

Blaine blinked at him, frown deepening. "You wanted this," he accused.

"I wanted this to mean something," Kurt retorted heatedly. "But you just spent half the night dancing with Sebastian. We weren't even supposed to stay, Blaine, but because you were stupid enough to take a drink from a stranger at a gay bar and now just tried to molest me--" His voice was rising in pitch without his permission as his agitation crept up. Blaine looked a mixture of enraged and remorseful, an interesting combination on any person.

"I asked you," he pointed out in a low voice.

"Oh, so if I just tried to rip off your clothes and have sex with you in the back of a car while I was drunk it would be okay as long as I asked?"

Blaine pushed his way upright, swaying dangerously before staggering off. "What are you doing?" Kurt demanded, angry and frustrated and a little bit terrified that this wasn't just an argument over Karofsky, this was an argument about them.

Blaine tossed him a single cold look over his shoulder. "I'm sorry for trying to be spontaneous and fun!" he said, storming off. It amazed Kurt that he could stay upright, let alone move as quickly as he was.

"And where do you think you're going?" Kurt called after him.

"Home," Blaine snarled back.

Kurt looked at his vanishing back in disbelief, agitated and frustrated and flustered beyond belief. "Blaine!" he called, hoping that if he could just convince Blaine to come back and talk to him, or at least shout it out, things would be okay.

Blaine just kept walking.

Turning in a circle unconsciously, looking for something that would make things better, Kurt sighed and shut the back door firmly, climbing into the driver's seat after a moment.

He shivered slightly as he looked over his shoulder at the empty back seat. He could still hear Blaine's almost frantic pleads in his ear, an unpleasant reminder that he had talked about going . . . further with Blaine and shown 'interest' tonight. It didn't matter that he had no intention to be intimate with anyone tonight: Blaine had mistaken his eagerness to dance and his own intoxication as permission. Granted, he had still had one shred of rationality left that still insisted he ask, but compared to the overwhelming force of his questing hands, it was a feeble argument.

Kurt put his head in his hands and just sat at the wheel for a long time. Blaine had made him feel trapped and claustrophobic and uncomfortable in the car, exactly what he didn't want if he wanted to be intimate with anyone. He had substituted physical closeness for actual intimacy and, in the haze of his own inebriation, mistaken the two for the same. It made Kurt shudder again, such a sharp, unpleasant contrast to the sweet and slow Blaine Kurt had come to know. He wanted to be outright angry at him -- he had crossed lines, and those were important to Kurt, no matter how attractive or nice Blaine was -- but he couldn't hold back a feeling of regret.

Was I sending the wrong signals? he wondered. Did I act too desperate? Make it seem like we could just throw everything to the wind and do it?

They had been practically inseparable since Kurt's dad and Carole left, yes. Even more so than usual, at any rate, which was quite a feat. Kurt had become a little more adventurous, telling Blaine that he wouldn't mind exchanging their 'hands visas' for more 'permissive' editions in the future. Blaine's face as he looked at Kurt then had been so filled with different emotions that Kurt found it difficult to pick out even the predominant ones. Want and love were foremost, as well as concern and uncertainty.

Are you sure this is what you want?

This isn't what I wanted. Not at all, Kurt thought, wishing the steering wheel wasn't in the way so he could simply huddle in on himself and forget the fact that tonight had gone so horribly. He didn't know if he was more to blame or Blaine: obviously, Blaine had overstepped the boundaries, and yet he had been the one to practically goad him to it with near constant discussion about what it would be like if they just kept going further rather than holding back deliberately. Kurt knew Blaine wanted it, no matter how polite he acted, and once he tapped into that sheer stark area of want in him he knew it wasn't fair -- especially when he was drunk -- to expect him to form a coherent argument against it. Maybe dancing with him had gotten him away from Sebastian, but it had also definitely sent some signals in Blaine's direction Kurt hadn't meant to give.

Let's break the rules. We're having fun at a gay bar together. Why not be a little more adventurous tonight?

Kurt doubted that it was anywhere near as cohesive in Blaine's mind, but he suspected a more primal radar was definitely picking up the signals and his mind had just set aside the more 'normal' protests and, well, gone for it.

Groaning, rubbing his temples with his fingertips and turning the key in the ignition at last, Kurt sighed as he waited for the car to warm up. He hated feeling so out of sorts, almost shaky with indecision, his throat choked. Part of him was furious at Blaine. That part wanted to simply bury his face in a pillow and scream until he couldn't anymore. The other part was guilty. He had led Blaine on and just expected drunk, practically incoherent Blaine to make logical decisions in the face of temptation.

We're boyfriends. We've talked about it. My parents aren't around and his don't care. Of course he would connect the dots now.

Feeling disconsolate, Kurt waited until the last of the bitter November night air had been chased out by the heat, at last turning the dial down a couple notches to a more normal level.

Blaine's touches had been freezing, completely uncharacteristic of him. Of course, Kurt and Blaine had been walking to the car in less-than-wintry gear, and Blaine's hands were exposed to the cold air just like the rest of him. Still, it had startled Kurt when his chilly fingers brushed against his stomach, icy and eager, so unlike they're usual gentle warmth.

I don't want to do this with you. Not here, not now.

Putting the car into park, Kurt pulled out of the parking lot. He had failed just as bad as Blaine at this by not setting the boundaries clearly. Blaine's drunk mind was his subconscious more than anything: exaggerated and uncensored, perhaps, but still his basic instincts. He wanted Kurt, and beneath groping hands and a hot, desperate mouth was a pleading conviction to convince Kurt to agree. He wantedKurt to agree, even if his body was already moving two steps ahead of him.

He's drunk.

He's alone.

It's really cold out.

Then: Shit.

Kurt had no idea which direction he had wandered off, but he thought he had seen a shadow heading west, so he started driving that way.


	37. Chapter 37

If this was supposed to be some convoluted game of hide-and-go-seek, Kurt was willing to concede that Blaine was winning. No matter how many times he circled the area, he found no signs of him. The lack of snow or mud made it impossible to trace footprints, and in the dark it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. Relying solely on dumb luck and the hope that perhaps Blaine's inebriation would work in Kurt's favor, Kurt drove in increasingly broad circles, looping around the lot.

Where are you? he wondered silently, the passenger window rolled down as he scanned the night, driving at a pace that would have gotten him arrested if a cop was waiting nearby. Kurt hoped not -- spending the night in a jail cell would definitely qualify as icing on the cake at that point -- but he didn't dare increase his speed. Mostly he was worried that he might not only find but actually hit Blaine if he drove any faster. Fear had already attempted to seize him as he thought of what would happen if someone else happened to scour this deserted corner now, but he stubbornly forced those thoughts aside.

Later, he chided himself, slowing so that a lame duck could probably have out-raced him. Don't think about that now. Focus.

As ten minutes faded into twenty, Kurt couldn't help himself.

If he gets hurt, it's your fault. You shouldn't have left him alone like that, regardless of how angry he made you. He was drunk and confused. He just acted on an impulse, not because he was trying to hurt you.

Shutting those thoughts for later contemplation, Kurt sighed as he drove around another corner. The night was cool and dark, completely still with only the occasional breeze ruffling the town. Most of its unexciting inhabitants had retired for the evening, the stark contrast of orange street lights seeming eerie against the darkened homes. Kurt felt like one of the serial killers in a badly done Hollywood horror film, largely because he kept slowing down to peer at any suspicious shadows. Or maybe he was the hapless victim about to be chainsawed from behind, Kurt thought, rolling his eyes to himself at the thought of a mass murderer popping up in his back seat.

You need to back off the horror movies, he thought, not daring to turn on the radio in case he missed something. He wished that he dared to -- the quiet was unsettling, his overactive imagination not helping as other, more probable dangers made themselves known -- until at last he simply stopped at a stop sign and didn't bother moving forward after the requisite pause.

Dammit, Blaine, where are you?

He gripped the steering wheel, his foot resting on the break as he tried to figure out what to do. He could continue circling the area for the next three hours with no more impressive results. Or he could drive home and hope that maybe Blaine would somehow show up later. Or he could drive along that route and hope that Blaine would walk by and he could pick him up that way. Or he could just stay here until enlightenment shown down on him, a possibility that held more short-term appeal.

Call us if you need anything. My phone's always on, too, and I don't care what time of day it is or who's in trouble, you let me know.

Kurt would have banged his head once against the steering wheel to relieve his feelings of exasperation if he wasn't so relieved (and worried about bringing down angry neighbors by honking the horn). Of course. Blaine had his phone on him. (Kurt had made sure four times beforehand that he did; Blaine, although amused, had assured him each time that he did, and unless Sebastian had somehow managed to steal that, too, then Kurt could call him.

Absentmindedly thanking that gnome-in-a-teapot-flying-around-the-moon, Kurt dug his phone out of his pocket, scowling at the low battery.

This is not the time to have a low battery, Kurt thought, scowling and hoping that it would last for at least a brief conversation. He found Blaine's number immediately and punched it in, fingers crossed on his left hand as he held the phone up to his right ear.

Four long rings. Kurt could feel his heart rate quickening with each one, desperate for an answer.

Then, just as the fifth ring was dying out, someone picked up.

"You should keep better track of your hobbit," Sebastian drawled, the smile visible in his voice.

Click.

* * *

Sebastian was enjoying himself. Watching Blaine Anderson circle the parking lot ranting was amusing, even if he did occasionally wander a little too close to the road. Sebastian wasn't so sadistic that he would let the drunken idiot walk straight into oncoming traffic, but he was not above letting it shave a little closer than a good Samaritan would have. If Anderson's boyfriend happened to drive by, Sebastian felt it was simply all the more reason to let him sweat about it.

He hadn't given Anderson anything harmful. Just a playful little concoction that would helpfully remove most of his 'noble' inhibitions and let Sebastian have a little fun. Of course, most would have said that this was the perfect opportunity to take advantage of his insofar unsatisfactory affair. Even Trume was beginning to mock the plan again, despite being incapacitated with the flu. Sebastian knew that, as a proper heartbreaker, this should be making him overjoyed: vulnerable, angry, tipsy Anderson. Fresh off rejection from his boyfriend, an easy target for the rebound.

But Sebastian had no intentions of going to jail. He was a schemer. He enjoyed the thrill of his endeavors. Most consequences, he didn't mind. Going to jail for rape qualified as one of the few exceptions.

Leaning back against the hood of his car, watching with lazy eyes as Anderson came to a halt in the middle of the parking lot, probably in the midst of some drunken epiphany, Sebastian shook his head to himself. It had almost been too easy to convince the boys to come toScandals. Just drop some illicit material in their hands and they panicked. If he had been in their places, he would have simply taken the cards and dropped them in a neighbor's trash. Or shredded them. As long as he didn't parade the fact that he had thrown them away, he would have gotten away with it. But Sebastian had been counting on Anderson and his boyfriend's inexperience, and it had worked. They wanted a place to get rid of the cards, and so they came exactly where Sebastian wanted them: the gay bar.

"Who are you?" Blaine asked, frowning slightly at him.

"Guess," Sebastian said, folding his arms and leaning back.

Blaine frowned, then shivered. "S'cold," he muttered.

"That's because it's November," Sebastian pointed out. "Feel free to walk around some more."

"Don't . . . tell me what to do," Blaine said, scowling. "'M walking home."

Sebastian grinned cheekily. "It's that way," he said, pointing towards Westerville.

Predictably, Blaine huffed and then started walking in the opposite direction.

"Predictable fool," Sebastian said, half-amused, half-curious at the possibilities that now stood before him. He had not expected Anderson's boyfriend to leave him alone, and when Sebastian had spotted Anderson walking out back, he had just pulled him aside and kept him out of sight while his boyfriend drove around, letting him wander freely once it was clear that he wasn't coming back around. Now, however, he basically had Anderson to himself. Drunk, angry, confused, at-his-mercy Anderson. The possibilities were already turning over in Sebastian's mind, especially ones of having a little fun with Anderson's boyfriend and keeping Anderson under the radar for a little while.

One night certainly wouldn't kill him, Sebastian mused.

"Hey, Blaine," he said casually, sidling up beside him. "Where are you going?"

"Home," Blaine grunted.

"I could take you there," Sebastian offered dryly. He felt like a poorly done villain in some date-rape scene, idling by at an easy pace, confident that his quarry wasn't going anywhere quickly. While he had been mostly out of it on the dance floor, Anderson had definitely surrendered the remainder of his fear and worry as well as other inhibitions now. Case-in-point: he was walking into the road again, this time with no indication of stopping.

Sighing was melodramatic, so Sebastian refrained as he cut across the last few yards briskly and gripped Anderson's upper arm, tugging him back like a fish on a hook. Anderson flailed and stumbled more than once, but Sebastian was not concerned that it looked graceful. Besides, everyone around here knew about Scandals, and few people would concern themselves with anything that walked in or out of it, even if they were fighting. Most residents simply wanted to keep their own 'straightness' intact, Sebastian knew, so they wouldn't intervene in any affairs.

This is almost too perfect, a sadistic part of him remarked. You should take advantage of it. Who's going to know?

Trume would, for one. It never mattered if Sebastian actually told him what he was doing or not: Trume found out. He was as much someone Sebastian confided and planned with as he was someone that Sebastian kept an eye on. There was no telling what invisible line Trume had set that, if Sebastian crossed it, he would react instead of maintaining his cool, passive silence. Sebastian knew it was high, but he had a feeling this was one of those black areas in his mind. No forgiveness.

Anderson was quiet beside him, but Sebastian didn't bother let go of his arm until they were back at his car. Enough fooling around: Anderson's boyfriend would probably double-back soon in desperation (if he was searching still, which Sebastian was ninety percent sure he was). Time to put a little ground between them, some unfamiliar territory to spice up the deal.

"Come on," he said, opening the back seat door and pushing Anderson inside, planting one firm hand on his chest to keep him from flopping over or trying to get out. He tugged the buckle over and shut the door, stepping lightly over to the driver's seat and sliding smoothly in place.

"So how far do you think your boyfriend's willing to go for you?" Sebastian mused aloud.

Anderson groaned. "M'head hurts."

"That's because of the alcohol, babe," Sebastian said, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

Kurt wanted to scream.

Of course Sebastian would find Blaine first. He had probably found him the moment he left the bar, Kurt reasoned, since he had already spent so much time scouring the surrounding area. If he was smart, he would have just found a discreet corner and waited for Kurt to move on. The possibilities of where he was now were growing by the minute. Depending on how soon he had gotten behind the wheel and how fast he was going, he could already be to Westerville by now. Of course, Westerville was the predictable route, Dalton even more so. Kurt doubted Sebastian would be stupid enough to go there, no matter what twisted reverse psychology he used. Sebastian could go anywhere in Ohio if he wanted.

He won't go anywhere, Kurt reasoned, pulling into an empty parking lot to think. Tomorrow's Thursday. He could skip classes if he wanted to, but Warbler practice is on Friday. There's no way he's going to miss that, too.

Sebastian could miss Warbler practice if he wanted to, but as the lead soloist and frankly the most questionable member of the group at the moment, he would be risking his involvement to stay away. He had to come back some time, if only because other people would notice. Despite his public gestures, Kurt doubted he wanted to have people wondering his whereabouts when he was playing keep-away.

You're wasting time, a soft voice reminded.

Kurt closed his eyes. He had no idea where to go and, now that Sebastian had control of the situation, his chances were rapidly diminishing that he would 'win' this game.

What happens if you lose?

Kurt didn't want to think about that. Putting his boyfriend -- his drunk boyfriend -- in the hands of the same person that seemed determined to have him at any costs was not a comforting thought.

What do I do? he begged no one. Now was usually the moment when he swallowed his pride and asked his dad for help, but he was in Washington and probably asleep by now. Kurt knew that, even if he did call him, at most he could promise to kill Sebastian discreetly and hop on the next plane over to Lima at the soonest opportunity. (That was all assuming that his phone battery held out long enough for him to do anything, of course. Which it probably wouldn't.) Either way, fervency and promises could not fix the current situation. By the time his dad was back in Lima, the damage was already done.

The police also weren't really an option. For one, there had been enough people at the gay bar to recognize him and Blaine that they would definitely be in trouble for that, not to mention the use of fake ID cards and drinking underage. If Sebastian didn't even do anything, then he would be involving them in a needlessly complicated search facing deeply unpleasant consequences afterwards. (His dad would be angry and disappointed and probably ground him. The police would probably put him in jail, which was a much less appealing scenario.)

So where did he go from here? Did he dare go home and figure things out, maybe get Finn to help? At the very least, he needed a working phone. His was virtually useless as it was. Kurt doubted that even if Blaine somehow managed to get his phone back (highly improbable, but still possible), there was still every possibility that Kurt's would just die on him and then they would be in the same situation as before.

Pulling out of the parking lot, he angled towards east Lima. Maybe inspiration would strike when he was moving instead of sitting in blank confusion. He hated this feeling of helplessness and guilt.

You shouldn't have left him alone, he chastised himself.

He was the one who was stupid in the first place, Kurt's more aggressive half pointed out unrepentantly.

Still, Kurt would definitely prefer to be yelling at his boyfriend for his stupidity than anxiously left in the dark as he was then.

It took almost forty minutes to navigate his way home, largely because he kept detouring in some vague hope that he would find Blaine actually wandering around. It wasn't impossible -- Sebastian had lied before -- but his heart was moored somewhere in his stomach by the time he pulled up the familiar streets towards the Hudson-Hummel residence. No sign of Blaine, no dark hints from Sebastian (although his phone was probably dead by now), and absolutely no idea where to go from there.

Just please, please, please let him be okay, Kurt pleaded, investing all of his hope in that stupid flying-gnome-in-a-teapot. He seemed to have temporarily reached a busy line and was unresponsive, but Kurt needed something and right then it was the only thing he could think of. He didn't believe in God, but occasionally he humored himself with thoughts that that there was some celestial being handling all the busywork and might listen if he put in a note every once in a while.

Help us win Regionals and let us go to New York had been among his more successful pleas. For almost all of his sophomore year, it had been just Please let this end, but he was glad that the gnome had interpreted that non-literally and given him Blaine and Dalton Academy instead of a true end to the pain. It had been an end of an era instead: the time when he fought alone against the world was over. He had had friends, yes, but no one quite like Blaine, and it made all the difference.

Of course, the overwhelming response from the gnome was usually silence, but occasionally he found himself surprised when the gnome 'picked up,' so to speak. It had become a skewed lifeline for him, in a way, a final resort outside of his dad's tremendous ability to fix things and make him feel better. Maybe he was being just as bad as Finn and his Grilled Cheesus had been, but it comforted him knowing that maybe he had a strange ally somewhere.

Kurt pulled into the driveway with a fierce sense of trepidation, knowing that Finn awaited beyond, clueless about his desperation and fear. His heart was trying to leap out of his chest, but fortunately reality reasserted itself and he managed to steady his shaking hand as he reached for the door. Tugging it open tentatively, he blinked at the silence. No video games, then, which was unusual for Finn. Maybe he was at Puck's? Or Rachel's?

Quashing his helplessness, Kurt nearly leaped out of his skin when Finn appeared around the corner, looking confused and equally surprised by Kurt's presence. He did jump slightly, startled, before saying, "Oh. Hi."

"Hi," Kurt echoed warily.

"Your, uh -- Blaine's here," Finn blurted with his usual eloquence.

Kurt stared at him in mute disbelief for two seconds. "What?" he asked at last, stunned at how thin and grateful his voice was. He was already moving before Finn could finish, gravitating towards the spot before moving past him, towards the bathroom. Light poured into the hallway, and Kurt could hear ragged breathing beyond.

"He's, uh, he's sick, I think," Finn added, rubbing the back of his neck as he sauntered over. Kurt spent another moment gazing in dumb shock at his boyfriend, half-sprawled on the carpet by the toilet, before rushing over and crouching down beside. "I don't know. . . ." Finn trailed off, shrugging. "I figured you'd be back together."

Kurt, for his part, was no longer paying any attention to Finn. He bundled Blaine up in his arms, determined to keep him from disappearing, because this was impossible. Even if Sebastian had been lying when he had said he had him, Blaine would never have made it all the way from Scandals to the Hudson-Hummels, let alone this quickly. If Kurt smothered Blaine a little, that was okay, since Blaine had already given him a minor heart attack for all his troubles. At least Finn had had the intelligence to wrap a blanket around his shoulders, Kurt thought, ignoring his frigidity. Although it was nothing that merited a trip to the ER, Kurt definitely didn't like that it implied a good amount of exposure to the elements. Still confused and worried and relieved all in one, he listened to Finn with half an ear, his fingers interlocked tightly behind Blaine's back.

". . . showed up about twenty minutes ago," Finn said, clearly finishing his speech. "I thought you two were coming home together," he added, correctly realizing that Kurt hadn't been listening the first time.

Kurt shook his head. "Later," was all he said. He felt Blaine shiver a little and wrapped the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. "How did you get home?" he added. "Blaine?"

Blaine didn't say anything, just curled up against Kurt and closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted, and Kurt felt bad for being pushy but he needed to know, so he gave him a slight shake that at least made his eyes open, half-hooded. "What?" he mumbled, clearly out-of-it.

"How did you get home?" Kurt repeated clearly, knowing that Finn was probably baffled but not caring at the moment.

Blaine sniffed. "M'head hurts," he said.

Kurt sighed, frustrated. It was definitely not the time for whatever alcohol Sebastian had given him to kick in more fully. "Can you focus for a minute? Please? Just tell me how you got here."

"I don't . . . fight. Fight with K-Kurt."

"Okay. What happened after that?" It was a little odd, he had to admit, listening to Blaine referring to him in the third person when he was right there, but he could tell from the heavy, almost exasperated sigh Blaine heaved a moment later that he didn't understand the situation, at least not completely.

"'M tired. . . ." he complained.

"I know, I know," Kurt crooned sympathetically. "Just tell me what happened after you fought with . . . Kurt." He decided that saying 'me' wouldn't be helpful in case Blaine wondered why he was blaming himself for a fight he had had with 'Kurt.'

Blaine's brow furrowed as he tried to remember. "I walked," he slurred at last. "Walked home." Then, pressing his face against Kurt's shoulder decisively, he whined, "M'head huuurts."

"That's because you're probably partially hungover at this point," Kurt informed him, not even bothering worry over the fact that Finn was listening. He could almost feel his stepbrother's eyes boring into the back of his head but he ignored them. He would tell him later; right now, he just needed to know how Blaine had gotten home. "I don't know what else was in what you drank, but that could be part of it, too," Kurt added.

"Dude, what the hell did you two do?" Finn asked, sounding half-surprised, half-worried. "Do I need to call Burt or something?"

"No, and I'll tell you later," he said empathetically. "Please just go away for now, Finn."

Finn lingered a moment longer, casting them both dubious looks before shaking his head and walking off with a muttered, "I'll be in the living room."

"Ugh, I'm sick," Blaine groaned.

"You'll survive," Kurt assured, rubbing his back slightly in an attempt to both comfort and warm him up a bit. He knew he should be angry at Blaine but honestly, hungover Blaine was rather pitiful, as Kurt had learned the last time he had to deal with him. It was like trying to kick an abashed puppy: once the high of it all wore off, the sober, downtrodden demeanor was impossible to contend with. Sighing slightly to himself, deciding that he would scold Blaine when he was more sober later, Kurt adjusted them so that his back was to the wall and Blaine was partially curled in his lap. Blaine curled his hand in Kurt's shirt, limp and heavy.

"'M sorry," he whispered.

"Hold onto that thought when you're sober," Kurt said dryly.

"I'm sorry," Blaine repeated obliviously. "'M so sorry, Kurt. . . . I-I'm sorry."

"Shh. I know," Kurt sighed. It didn't change the fact that he was still angry with Blaine in some small corner of his mind, but he couldn't help tightening his grip a little and resting his chin on top of Blaine's head. Yelling at him later still counted as being angry with him, after all.

* * *

It took a full hour before Kurt could coax Blaine off the bathroom floor, half-conscious and stumbling, managing to pull him upstairs and laying him down on Kurt's bed. Blaine was quiet and complacent, his eyes barely open, as Kurt tugged off his shoes and jacket, tucking the blanket around him instead. Blaine made a disgruntled noise and sat up slightly as Kurt tried to take the jacket away, clinging to it with shaky fingers. Kurt tried to gently brush them off but Blaine persisted, fumbling blindly until he found the pocket, his fingers crumpling around something.

Kurt frowned as he tugged out the note. It was addressed to him -- Kurt -- but not in the neat, compact style of Blaine's handwriting.

Apparently satisfied that Kurt had gotten the message, Blaine's arm dropped back onto the bed and he was snoring in seconds.

Confused and curious, Kurt sat on the chair at his vanity with the jacket and note in hand, flicking the light on to its dimmest setting as he held the slip of paper up to it.

Kurt, the note read.

Lucky once.

Keep a better eye on your boyfriend next time.

* * *

"What's got you down, beau?" Mercedes asked, nudging his shoulder as she sat beside him in the choir room. "You look sick. Are you?"

"No," Kurt said, shaking his head. "Just tired."

It was true -- he had barely gotten any sleep the night before courtesy of the incident, and Finn had hounded him for an explanation until he had finally snapped and given as clipped a version of the events as he could by midnight. A difficult task, considering how many times Finn interrupted with a question or need for further explanation, but eventually they had managed and Kurt had explained everything that he knew about the situation, including Sebastian. Finn had immediately decided that giving Sebastian a good pounding would help, but Kurt had managed to convince him to wait. It was late and he was tired and just relieved that Blaine was (relatively) unscathed. Either way, he knew that he would be having words with the Warbler, especially about how kidnapping someone was definitely notallowed. Not to mention when that someone was Kurt's boyfriend.

Blaine had a pair of sunglasses on, his pallor a little paler than usual and his jaw tense. Kurt knew that he was probably thinking about the previous night, too, even though sobriety had not given him any enlightenment. Despite careful interrogation and a frustrated burst of 'Kurt, I don't know,' the topic had been inconclusively dropped. All they knew was that Sebastian had been involved and that at some point he had stolen Blaine's phone. The rest was a mystery: after Blaine had walked off, neither could piece together a coherent whole of what had happened.

"Well, cheer up," Mercedes told Kurt brightly, interrupting his line of thoughts. "Now that Berry and your beau are the leads, we can have all the time we want to prepare for regionals' solos."

"Regionals?" Kurt repeated, blinking stupidly.

Mercedes rolled her eyes and punched him affectionately on the shoulder. "Damn, white boy, whatever happened to 'divas forever'? Aren't you still supposed to be my friend, too?" Her voice had a teasing note to it that Kurt was grateful for. He never wanted to come across as though he was intentionally ignoring her, even if he couldn't help it sometimes that he lost track of his thoughts.

"Sorry," he said. "What's Mr. Schue's latest scheme to win?"

Mercedes leaped into a spirited explanation of what the competition looked like -- whoever was getting leads in the production, for one, had to concede to the people that weren't, boosting Mercedes' and Kurt's prospects enormously -- but Kurt, despite his inner promise to listen, soon found himself drifting back to thoughts of Sebastian and the night before. He blamed it mostly on the way Blaine sat stiffly in his chair, unmoving and silent, so unlike his usual self that Kurt wondered if the concoction Sebastian had given him had a personality altering component as well. He reached over, nodding slightly at Mercedes as she emphasized something, and grasped Blaine's hand, giving it a squeeze. Blaine looked at it briefly, his head moving almost mechanically, before he looked off to the side again and gripped it back.

". . . you and I are set," Mercedes finished triumphantly.

"All right, guys," Mr. Schue said, stepping into the classroom with his folders in hand. "You won't believe what I have prepared for regionals this time."

Mercedes cast Kurt a knowing look and smirked. Kurt did his best to look interested, but he was inevitably distracted when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Waiting until Mr. Schue turned around to expound upon the white eraser board, Kurt tugged it partially out of his pocket and scowled at the screen.

Hope you boys are ready for regionals. - S

Blaine looked over and made a disgruntled noise. Kurt tucked the phone away as Mr. Schue turned back around. He still had no idea what role Sebastian had played in last night's events, despite knowing that he had something to do with them. Either way, he was going to talk to the Warbler face-to-face -- soon -- and give him a memorable reason never to mess with Kurt Hummel again.

* * *

Despite the sense of almost camaraderie between them, a united front against Sebastian, Blaine knew that he had messed up -- badly.

He wished that he could simply reverse the clock a day and remind his other self that he should just dispose of the cards in some public place in a discreet manner. In retrospect, he was kicking himself for ever suggesting that they go to the place Sebastian had hinted at just so they could get rid of the cards. Of course there had been ulterior motives, and unfortunately Blaine's curiosity had been piqued enough and his subconscious agreed that he was able to convince Kurt the same. Or win by default.

Either way, he knew that he had acted impulsively. Instead of consulting Kurt about one of the biggest steps in their relationship, he had tried to force it on him. It was a cringe-worthy thought and despite the headache that seemed to have been nailed into his skull, the thought that predominated was remorse. He wanted to apologize to Kurt in a way that showed him that he had never, ever meant to put him in a position like that, even if his subconscious had wanted to. That was the whole point of rationality and restraint: not to act on those selfish desires, regardless of how appealing they were as far as short-term goals went.

Blaine wondered why Kurt had not yelled at him or at least given him the cold shoulder, instead acting exactly as though nothing had happened. It hurt Blaine to know that he had upset Kurt enough that he was pushing it all aside, not wanting to necessarily confront his own stupidity but knowing he had to.

So the minute glee practice was over and it was just the two of them in the auditorium, Blaine reached out and grasped Kurt's sleeve before he could walk out with the rest of the group. Kurt raised an eyebrow at him, evidently confused, but lingered behind, waving Mercedes off when she tossed a quizzical glance in their direction. With a wolfish grin in place, she waved back and walked off. Blaine could see the affectionate scowl on Kurt's face as he turned slowly to face him.

His face sobered instantly when he took in Blaine's expression.

"Last night," Blaine began, then paused, looking seriously at Kurt, trying to convey just how sorry he was, "should never have been like that. I'm so sorry, Kurt. I was drunk and stupid and I never would have acted like that sober."

Kurt's eyebrows lifted slightly. "So you would do it again drunk?" he asked, almost wryly.

"I -- Kurt, I'm sorry. I really, really screwed up, and I know that you probably hate me for that and--"

"Hate is a strong word," Kurt said softly, his gaze contemplative.

Blaine winced slightly. "I just . . . I lost control of myself," he said at last, running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know why I drank anything in the first place -- I swear I had no intentions of getting drunk."

"At least there wasn't a Rachel Berry around to smooch," Kurt pointed out, looking skyward as though for some divine explanation for Blaine's stupidity.

"The point is," Blaine said, walking carefully between assertive and submissive, not wanting to come across as arrogant but also needing to make his sincerity clear, "I messed up. Badly. And I completely understand if you want to spend some time apart or are angry at me -- both probably -- or . . . even if you want to break up with me. I was way out of line. I'd have freaked myself out if I was in your position, and I hate that I put you there, Kurt."

Kurt's gaze was almost opaque. "So . . . what you're saying is that I have permission to break up with you."

Blaine steeled himself against the instantaneous rejection, wanting to say that they had promised to be together forever or some other such weightless promise. "Yes," he said quietly instead.

Kurt sighed, and for one horrible moment Blaine thought that that was it. Then Kurt said, "You're an insufferable fool sometimes, Blaine, but I guess that just makes you human," and Blaine knew it would be okay. It might not be perfect, and it was certainly no 'everything's forgiven,' but at least it wasn't rejection, either.


	38. Chapter 38

"Mr. Hummel, what you are proposing is unprecedented for a student."

Kurt smiled and sat up a little straighter in his seat. "Then I suppose it just merits even more reflection, doesn't it?"

Principal Figgins rubbed at his forehead, looking like he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Kurt could understand that -- the man's stress levels over breakfast were exorbitantly high -- but he also knew that this was a necessary step in his anti-bullying operation. If he wanted to foster any trust between the unlikely group that was in favor of it, thus far invisible to the general eye, then he needed to demonstrate that he was a capable leader. After a rigorous four hour examination of school legal boundaries and student powers, Kurt had discovered that there were virtually no limitations on 'justified censorship.' As long as he could prove that the slushy machines were harmful in a genuine capacity, then he had the power to petition for their removal.

You would have to be a blind, lame, deaf invertebrate not to see how slushy machines are harmful, Kurt thought. He considered mentioning the same aloud to Figgins before discarding it. Better to retain a semblance of almost humble inquiry than his usual dramatic flare. He needed to be blunt and forceful, but not overly caustic. He ultimately wanted Figgins on his side; the school board would already be striving against him. He did not need the additional road block Figgins could potentially pose.

The principal leaned forward in his chair and rested his palms on the desk, one on top of the other. It was his go-to comfortable-authoritative position, Kurt had noted after the first seven minutes of their controlled debate. Like a businessman consulting his agent on a difficult proposal, he was seeking Kurt's opinion as much as barricading his ideals from altercation. Kurt just had to convince him that he needed to be a little flexible about the deal and he was sold. (Allowing that no external forces -- namely one Sue Sylvester -- did not interfere, of course.)

At last, letting out a sigh that seemed to come from his toes, Figgins said, "I want to help you out, Mr. Hummel, but I am afraid that parents might complain we are being illegitimately censorious."

Somewhat amazed that Principal Figgins -- the same man that mispronounced 'harassment' on more than one occasion -- knew a word such as censorious, Kurt reigned in his thoughts and shook his head. "I've checked all the files," he said confidently. "There's nothing stating that a student can't challenge a school policy if it's dangerous."

"This is something on the school menu," Figgins said, as though Kurt did not already know the minor difficulty that posed. By adjusting the menu, he brooked the potential for another 'Tots Riot of '11, an experience that neither principal nor student was eager to repeat. "We cannot simply go around changing it at the fall of a hat."

"Principal Figgins," Kurt said in his most reasonable tone, "we have suffered long enough under the slushy regime. I know that this could incite parent disapproval, but student safety and comfort should be our top priority, and with them here it just increases the chances of bullying. At least once a month, the glee club is targeted with 'slushy facials,' and I know other bottom-feeders face the same treatment. All we're asking is that you take away that power from them. We can oppose their methods all we want but unless you make the change. . . ." He shrugged, letting the unspoken possibility linger between them.

Figgins looked pained briefly before his face turned inscrutable, brow furrowed, gaze tilted downward to deflect easy reading. Kurt waited patiently for a response, knowing that it would not be impossible for Figgins to refuse. Easier, most likely, since the athletics' department would probably lodge complaints that its sweaty inhabitants were no longer getting their corn syrupy retribution on the sub-basement dwellers.

Even after twelfth place at nationals, we're still considered the low-lifes of this school.

Not allowing that to discourage him -- they still had this year, and with their glee club vocally stronger than ever (if still as dysfunctional and chaotic) -- there was a real chance that they would go to nationals. And maybe even place in the top three this time. Or, Kurt dared hope in that small corner of his thoughts that he would never mention aloud in case it somehow jinxed them irreparably, maybe they would win. Everyone was pushing harder this year to climb the ranks, focusing on how good they would have to be as a team to win rather than obsessing over the strategies of Vocal Adrenaline and other competing teams. It was almost a breath of fresh air not to worry about Jesse St. Sucks and the drama he brought along with his fellow automatons. Kurt still knew that they were still a long way from being to nationals' level.

"Mr. Hummel?" Figgins said, sounding like he had repeated it twice already.

Kurt blinked and refocused, setting nationals' thoughts aside. "Yes?"

"I am willing to grant you a trial period for this proposal," Figgins explained once he was certain he held Kurt's attention. Kurt winced inwardly and mentally noted to stay focused throughout the conversation, even if that conversation consisted of Figgins' staring off thoughtfully into space. "If the uproar is significant, we will have to re-instate the machines until we reach a more decisive conclusion. If, however, there is no resistance. . . ." He let the sentence trail off meaningfully.

Kurt nodded seriously despite the side of him that wanted to bounce out of his seat and hug Figgins, or at least have a fanboy moment by himself. "I understand," he said solemnly. "When will you remove the machines?"

"I can organize our kitchen staff to take care of them before the end of the week."

Kurt paused, considering that, then hedged, "If I could organize the muscle, could we do it today?"

Figgins smiled slightly, his hand reaching over to grab a paper from his desk. "If you could just sign here, then I would be more than happy to grant you permission to do so. It would certainly ease the burden on the cafeteria ladies now that Helga injured her back again."

Signing off on the paper was a wonderful feeling for Kurt. Already he could see the three slushy machines meeting their overdue demise, something that should have occurred shortly after their implementation. It was with a sense of pride and accomplishment that he shook hands with Figgins before almost bouncing out of the office, determined to see this through.

I don't care if people protest. I'm going to fight this, and I know that people will back me up on it, and we'll win in the end because there's no way we can lose.

Feeling invigorated, he pulled out his phone and sent a mass text to everyone in glee club.

URGENT: Meet in the choir room in five.

* * *

"Dude, you freakin' rock," Puck said, punching him on the shoulder. Kurt feigned a smile, hiding a wince. Puck didn't really seem to understand that bruising was not a sign of affection, although he was certainly gentler around the girls. Maybe Kurt should feel flattered that even Puck considered him masculine enough to rough around with: he did it to Finn and Mike and Artie all the time, and they never complained. Still, Kurt mentally added to his checklist, Stay three feet away from Puck at all times, before clasping his hands and leaning back on his heels to address the rest of the glee clubbers.

"This is only a temporary measure," he added, hoping his voice sounded more confident that it would become permanent rather than apologetic. He wanted his fellow members to feel emboldened by the success, if not entirely reassured that it would last.

"Kurt, that's amazing," Mercedes said seriously. "When can we get these things the hell out of here, anyway?"

"As soon as I have the muscle power," Kurt replied, looking pointedly at Puck.

"Oh, dude, I am so on this," Puck said, flexing his sleeveless arms as though to prove his point.

"We'll help, too," Finn said, gesturing to himself and Mike, who nodded. "There's, what, two machines?"

"Three, actually. I didn't even know there was a third, but apparently there's one just outside the locker room on the opposite end from the football field."

"Really?" Mike asked, surprised as he stood up from his seat at the front. "I don't remember seeing one there."

"That's because the jocks that use it cover it with a towel most of the time," Kurt answered, wrinkling his nose. The mere thought of a used towel draped over the container that continued the slushy mixture was absolutely disgusting, and he dared not entertain long thoughts of that same foul concoction poured over his face. It was simply too abhorrent to bear for someone who spent on average an hour a day keeping his skin beautiful.

"We can help, too," Rachel chimed in, while Tina nodded eagerly beside her. "Besides, this is like a rite of passage for the glee club, a step towards that maturation of our talents and--"

"Okay, Berry, we get that you're happy, let's just get these things the hell outta here," Puck interrupted, stepping forward. "I'm just gonna grab Zizes," he added, hanging in the doorway and looking at the rest of them briefly. "She's like one of us, too."

Kurt nodded, although he suspected that Puck's generosity also stemmed from an unabated interest in the unusual girl, before turning to the rest of the group. "How do we want to do this?" he asked.

Finn blinked, then frowned. "What do you mean?"

He was standing in the middle of the room, as per usual, apparently convinced that the only way he could contribute meaningfully to a discussion like this was to be standing. After the way he had originally treated Blaine to a cold shoulder, Kurt thought it also was born of a need to simply reassert that he was in charge, no matter what anyone else said. Kurt puffed up a little involuntarily, wanting to tell Finn to stand down so that he could know that he wasn't king of anything.

He saw the earnestness and obliviousness in Finn's expression, however, and he knew that Finn wasn't standing to prove anything. He was just doing it because that was the natural place for him to be, and he couldn't help it if sometimes he went a little overboard with who was supposed to be in charge. You're such a dictator, Kurt thought without heat. Blaine could be an overlord sometimes, too, when it came to the Warblers. At least, he had been, before everything changed and he transferred to McKinley. Still, on those days when Kurt had time in history to let his thoughts stray, he couldn't help thinking that perhaps it was that clashing 'superiority complex' that caused Finn and Blaine to butt heads occasionally.

Even if Finn is doing most of the aggression and Blaine's just trying to fit in.

Setting those thoughts aside, because Blaine had excused himself for the morning in an attempt to recover from the hangover Sebastian's drink had given him (and Kurt was seriously this close to filing a complaint with the police, damn the consequences, because he was certain that no one had a hangover this long), Kurt refocused on Finn.

"I mean, this isn't just some posters we're putting up or a statement we're trying to make. We're actually going to take down the slushy machines, once and for all." He put special emphasis on those last words, hoping his own conviction would be mirrored in his compatriots. They seemed to feel the same, for no one spoke, although Artie, Tina, and Mercedes were nodding while Rachel simply beamed and looked on with enraptured eyes that screamed, I can include this in my best-selling novel someday!

"Shouldn't we make that important? Instead of some covert operation done in the middle of second period?"

"Yeah," Mike agreed, putting his hand on one of the chairs and looking at all of them. "We should do it during lunch, that way more people know what's going on. Then everyone will know about it."

"I agree," Finn said, looking at Mike briefly before returning his attention to Kurt. All of their eyes were on him, Kurt noticed, blushing slightly despite it all. He couldn't help it -- they weren't looking at him in terms of soloist or prospective soloist, but actual leader. Like he was someone they could put their trust in and expect to receive confidence and rewards in return. Like he was someone worthwhile following.

Of course you are, Kurt's chipper inner optimist chided, you're Kurt Hummel.

"All in favor of disposing the slushy machines at lunch?" Kurt asked.

Every hand raised.

Kurt grinned. We're really going to do this.

* * *

Lauren proved fundamental to the removal of the slushy machines, since she was the only one who knew how to disconnect the myriad of cords that made them work in the first place. Fearlessly diving into the fray of electrical outlets that would have intimidated even the most experienced janitor, she emerged moments later with each of the worthwhile plugs in hand, smirking in a decent impression of Kurt's bitch, please manner. "Let's get this thing rolling," she said, heaving one side of the slushy machine while Puck gaped stupidly for a moment before hurrying around to the other and grabbing it.

"Hot damn," Kurt thought he heard him say, but he was doing his best not to get in the way of Lauren as she walked past him.

"Okay, everyone," he said, clapping his hands together while Tina and Rachel helped 'escort' Puck and Lauren through the crowded cafeteria. Heads were already turning, several tables looking over in absent interest as the procession commenced. Not trusting Finn or Mike with any technical virtuosity, Kurt stepped over to the second machine and carefully disentangled the remaining cords. "Boys, if you would."

Finn stepped forward and heaved the disconnected slushy machine into his arms, Mike sauntering over to pick up the other half. By now, it was clear that the entire cafeteria was watching the commotion while Kurt marched after the duo. Marcus and Mercedes walked alongside the boys, looking fierce and impressive, while the rest of the glee kids helped keep cords and other parts of the machines from spilling over.

"The hell you fairies doin'?" one of the lacrosse jocks called out.

Kurt ignored him, as did the rest of the glee club, although Marcus did make a growling sound that effectively silenced the rest of the table's building complaints. Even the initial offender looked subdued as he stared at them. That's right, McKinley. May the future commence.

At last the bright, brisk November air greeted them as the first group shouldered open the doors, Artie holding it for the rest of the group until all members were outside. "Ready to get rid of these things once and for all?" Kurt asked, grinning at them, while Puck said, "Hell yeah, Hummel," and the rest made similar noises of agreement.

It was mollifying to watch the slushy machines disappear inside the dumpsters that had for too long been bullying spots for nerds and other geeks. Kurt smiled slightly as Finn and Mike hefted the second one in after the first, the growing muttering from inside seeming to resonate between them all. We're making a stand. Right here, right now. They can choose which side they want to be on, but we're not backing down on this.

"So now we just need the third machine," Kurt said, clasping his hands together.

"No need," a voice interrupted. James was a towering figure, equivalent or perhaps slightly taller than Finn, whose appearance seemed to make everyone in the cafeteria quiet for a moment before resuming. Kurt grinned broadly at him as he and another girl -- brown hair, middling height, but with a scrutinizing look that told Kurt he would be promptly removed if he did not demonstrate some unspoken quality -- carried the last slushy machine into the lot.

"Who the hell are you two?" Puck asked by means of greeting.

"Peterson, James, nice to meet you," James said, huffing slightly as he bore most of the slushy machine's weight. "Guy couldn't get a hand here?"

"Are you like, transfers or something?"

"Visiting, actually," James said, nodding at the visitor's badge just visible on his chest. He wore a simple white shirt and jeans, with a ruffled collar that seemed more summer than wintry, despite the chilly temperature. He looked completely unbothered by the change of seasons, however, nonchalantly moving towards the dumpster while Marcus replaced the girl's post.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing her hands together as though to restore circulation.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've ever met," Kurt said, stepping forward. He was the only one who knew James, after all, even if only minimally.

The girl narrowed her eyes at him briefly. "Who's asking?" she said at last, arms folded over her chest.

Oh, great, another Quinn. Or maybe Santana.

"Sadie, be nice. That's his boyfriend."

If anything, Kurt thought, this amendment only seemed to darken Sadie's expression. For several long moments, broken only by the heavy thump as the slushy machine hit the load of trash already in the dumpster, she looked at him in silent appraisal. Then she shook her head, said, "Sadie Jole, pleased to make your acquaintance," and directed her attention at the rest of the group. "So you guys are the glee here, huh?"

"We're the New Directions, yeah," Finn said, stepping forward almost warily. He was still a good head taller than her, but she did not seem overly bothered by this difference, instead looking at him steadily, undeterred. "How'd you know we were . . . ?"

James cleared his throat slightly and stepped forward, Finn bristling slightly at the sudden change in quarry. He's just mad that someone's actually as tall as he is, Kurt thought, amused. Marcus was huge, but Finn was still slightly taller. It was one of his comforts that made him feel more like a leader: verticality. Of course, Kurt had rarely seen someone have a group of people as willing to follow him as Blaine had been with the Warblers, and Blaine was practically a hobbit. Whatever vertical authority Finn tried to claim was effectively cancelled out around James, leaving them on equal ground.

"We were told that you guys were doing something to stop the bullying around here," James eluded, shrugging slightly as the rest of the New Directions looked him over. "Figured we might as well help out at a good cause."

"We just planned this today," Finn said slowly, evidently confused. The truth was, Kurt was confused as well, although he did his best not to let it show. The only way that James and Sadie were connected to him at all was through Blaine. The last Kurt had seen him, Blaine had been holed up in the bathroom with a pair of Tylenol and a promise to call Kurt if he needed him, regardless of whether Kurt was in classes or not. Maybe he had recovered and told them? It seemed plausible -- Blaine was known for dramatic gestures -- but Kurt felt a cold pit in his stomach as he realized the impossible.

Blaine doesn't have his phone. Blaine wouldn't have known I was planning on doing this today.

Blaine didn't contact James and Sadie.

Kurt barely heard the rest of the conversation over the white noise in his ears.

Sebastian's here.

He scanned the cafeteria frantically, doing his best not to appear that way even though his heart was racing. Half of him wanted to comb the school until he found the bastard and gave him a piece of his mind. The other half wanted to drive home as quickly as possible and make sure Blaine was okay.

Eventually, the latter won out. With only a muttered, "I've gotta go," he took off, ignoring Finn's surprised exclamation behind him.

"Wait, what're we supposed to do with these guys?" he asked, as though Kurt was somehow in charge of James' and Sadie's whereabouts.

Kurt ignored him. Figure it out yourself.

* * *

". . . mmm, I wish I had that cake."

"Blaine?"

"Mmmwhat?" Blaine asked, not opening his eyes or making any move to get off the floor in the living room, where he was currently sprawled. One hand on a pillow dragged halfway off the couch, his legs tangled hopelessly in a blanket, it looked like he had fallen off the couch mid-nap and simply not bothered get back up. Kurt could feel his racing heart calming somewhat as he knelt beside him, shaking his shoulder to try and wake him. His fingers trembled and he was less gentle than he meant to be, but he couldn't help himself. He just . . . he just had to know. It had been too close, that night after Scandals, and yes he was still frustrated at Blaine and Blaine had taken the couch instead of his bed for the past couple nights, but he just had to know he was okay above all else. Nothing else mattered against that.

"Kurt, Kurt, stop it," Blaine muttered, sitting up enough to pry Kurt's fingers off his shoulder and rubbing at his eyes as he propped himself awkwardly against the couch. "What happened? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Are you?" Kurt retorted, hating the edge of hysteria to his voice.

"Yeah," Blaine said, peering at him through squinted eyes warily. "'M fine. What happened?"

"I'm seriously about this close to reporting Sebastian to the police," Kurt said in a rush, unable to help himself. Blaine tried to sit up, his legs still tangled and half dangling off the couch, but Kurt lost control of his instinctive reactions and just swept him up in a crushing hug instead of letting him sit upright.

"MmKurtkindasmotheringme," Blaine mumbled against his shoulder.

"Shut up."

Blaine was quiet, his fingers tracing light, curious patterns over Kurt's shoulder blades. At last, Kurt let out a ragged breath and said, "I'm buying you a rape whistle. Or, like, ten. Do they sell them in dozen packs? I think they do. Or at least they should. I'm not sure if--"

"Wait, wait, what?" Blaine managed to prize himself away, hurriedly dragging his feet the rest of the way off the couch so he was sitting up, gripping Kurt's forearms seriously. "What happened?" he repeated, voice anxious and nervous and finally half as terrified as Kurt felt. "Come on, Kurt, please talk to me."

"James and Sadie showed up at McKinley today to help out with getting rid of the slushy machines and I know that Sebastian has your phone and--"

"Kurt, Kurt, stop, stop," Blaine urged, his thumbs brushing in soothing circles over Kurt's upper arms. "I told them to go there," he said at last.

Kurt blinked stupidly at him. Then he frowned. "How did you . . . ?"

"I heard you talking about meeting with Principal Figgins today last night," Blaine said with a shrug. "Sorry for 'eavesdropping,' but James and Sadie are big on anti-bullying stuff ever since . . . you know. So I thought that they might want to meet some of the New Directions." He shrugged again. "I called them on the house phone and they were fine with it. I guess I supposed it would just work out," he added. "Getting rid of the slushy machines, that was. Did it?"

Kurt could feel his heart rate slowing under the combined effects of Blaine's thumbs on his upper arms and the calm, soothing way he explained it. It made sense, he supposed, especially for someone like Blaine. Of course he would want to help out, but being temporarily incapacitated he had chosen to send his friends instead. There had been nothing sinister about it, no Sebastian at all.

". . . watching Ace of Cakes re-runs and I fell asleep," Blaine finished. Then, thoughtfully, he added, "Coach Beiste was right: it was actually a pretty good show, although now I really, really want some cake."

"That's why you don't watch food programs right before bed," Kurt's mouth said inanely and without his permission. Shaking his head, he sobered almost immediately as he realized that he had still yet to stop trembling, the momentary horror seeming to rock him to his core. Sebastian hadn't been the one to contact James and Sadie: Blaine had. Sebastian wasn't stalking them at McKinley. Sebastian hadn't . . . taken advantage of Blaine on the night they went to the gay bar.

Kurt shivered, a full-body shudder that racked him to his core. He didn't even want to think about where that would have led, if Sebastian had decided that he had had enough waiting.

"Kurt, please talk to me," Blaine pleaded. "Something's wrong. Why are you so freaked out?"

"Because maybe one of us is actually concerned that you could have been raped two nights ago," Kurt snapped.

Silence. The expression he 'could have heard a pin drop' had never seemed more apropos in Kurt's life as they stared at one another. Something . . . changed within Blaine's gaze, became dark and serious and lost the almost lightheartedness it had briefly adopted. Kurt opened his mouth to say something but Blaine retreated slightly, the blanket finally falling off his legs as his hands rested back at his sides.

"Kurt, I . . ." Blaine paused, grasping for words before shaking his head slightly. "I'm so, so sorry for that night. I wish I could just take it away completely, but I can't. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I'm also sorry that I put myself in that position. I know what it's like to be in a position where there's nothing you can do, and no matter how hard you fight back the other person just overwhelms you. And it's the worst feeling ever." His fingers clenched, his eyes briefly looking at something Kurt could and would never see before he looked back at Kurt, pouring apology and sincerity and regret all into his gaze.

"For two years, I would have given anything to go back and change that night," he whispered. "I would have done anything to erase what happened on the Sadie Hawkins dance. It wasn't . . . that," he wrinkled his nose at the thought, which Kurt thought was a severe under-representation of how horrible sexual assault was. "But that sense of powerlessness . . . do you think I ever wanted to repeat that? I just . . . I just can't believe I was stupid enough to do it. I spent so long thinking that I would do anything to change that night, to just go back in time and have it never happen, and I almost put myself in the same situation. But now I don't think that way -- that I would change it all. And do you know why?"

Kurt shook his head.

Three words, soft, barely audible: "Because I survived."

They sat in silence for a long time, Kurt mulling over the possibilities in his mind, absentmindedly wondering what Blaine was thinking. At last, Blaine pushed himself to his feet and offered a hand to Kurt, who gingerly accepted. It surprised him just how much strength Blaine had, both literally and metaphorically. He didn't bother loosen his grasp once he was standing, instead looking at Blaine seriously for several long, quiet moments. "I just . . . I want you to be safe," he said at last, his voice just as soft.

"I know." Blaine gave Kurt's hand a squeeze before releasing it. "I'm sorry that I scared you like that."

Kurt let out a bitter chuckle. "Oh, trust me, you're the least scary part of this equation."

It was true. Even if Blaine's actions scared Kurt out of his wits sometimes, at least he wasn't the one perpetrating them. Sebastian was.

It all comes back to him, Kurt mused.

He considered telling Blaine that he wanted to go speak with Sebastian before pausing. That would only encourage Blaine to want to come, and for this particular confrontation, Kurt didn't want to put him anywhere near Sebastian. Ideally, Sebastian would simply abandon the endeavor and jump state, but short of that there was only one way to resolve all this: call him out. Make Sebastian so focused on his own problems that he could no longer afford to seek out new ones. Most importantly, keep him away from Blaine. Whatever good Samaritan spirit had possessed Sebastian not to do something insidious that night was dubious at best. In short, Kurt didn't trust him, and he knew that the only way he would feel safe -- or that Blaine would be safe -- was if he somehow removed Sebastian from their lives.

Not permanently, he thought, almost wryly, since he was not quite ready to cross the line from dislike to murder.

"Give me ten minutes, I'll be back down and we'll go out for coffee or something, okay?" Blaine said, startling him from his thoughts.

Kurt nodded, then smiled slightly. "Are you sure you should be drinking coffee?"

Blaine looked wounded. "Of course," he said, ambling off towards the stairs with a look back at Kurt that said What? Don't you trust me?

"Only sometimes," Kurt muttered, sitting on the edge of the couch, settling down to wait. For now, he would content himself with not letting Blaine out of his sight. Later, he would worry about Sebastian.

Keep Blaine safe.

Get rid of Sebastian.

* * *

"Kurt. This is unexpected," Nick said, looking up as Kurt entered the Warblers' hall. He paused in rifling through several sheets of paper to peer at him quizzically as though trying to deduce his purpose without actually asking. Kurt smiled at him, for all the world an innocent bystander, before shrugging a tiny bit and stepping forward.

"You should know that I'm not one to be predictable," Kurt pointed out, pausing in the center of the room and looking around. "When is the next Warblers' meeting?"

Nick looked at him for a moment longer before darting a glance to the clock high on the wall. "Forty minutes," he said at last.

Perfect, Kurt thought, while feigning disappointment on the outside. He needed Nick to believe that he hadn't had any intentions to speak with a specific Warbler, even though that was exactly why he was there. If he came across too forward, word would spread around and Sebastian would know long before he wanted to involve him. Dalton Academy was a notorious gossip mill when it wanted to be: somehow, without any visible communication, the boys seemed to know every knew development that concerned them the moment it began. Sebastian would find out eventually, of course, but Kurt wanted to delay that meeting as long as possible. He needed everything to slip into place carefully, not be wrenched around because Sebastian decided to interfere.

Right now, you control the pieces, Kurt thought, imagining some immense, labyrinthine game of chess spread out before him. Keep that advantage on your side.

"Is there something else you wanted?" Nick asked, folding his hands and looking up at Kurt with an almost weary expression that surprised Kurt. He could never remember seeing Nick exhausted, despite his time at Dalton and his near constant exposure to the Warblers, yet here he was now, clearly worn out. Sebastian's regime had taken its toll on other members, then, who were forced to compensate for his behavior.

He's created his own demise.

All Kurt needed to do was maneuver the pieces just so that Sebastian had no other choice but to switch to the defense of his own reputation rather than rigorously pressing forward. It would take more than a rumor to deter Sebastian from his current cause, but Kurt was confident that he could figure it out.

Exchanging meaningless chatter with Nick in order to placate any suspicions he might have had about Kurt's presence, Kurt finally left with a promise to meet up with some of the other Warblers.

One Warbler, specifically, but he didn't mention that, even if the unspoken question was clear in Nick's eyes.

Kurt wandered down the halls until he was certain that there were no Dalton Academy boys in sight before angling carefully towards the dorm rooms.

The timing needed to be perfect, and it was. No sooner did he approach the wing devoted to the dorms than Jeff emerged, looking slightly startled at his appearance but no more concerned by it. "Oh, hey, Kurt," he said. "What's up?"

"I think I left my scarf with Sebastian," Kurt said, inwardly cringing at the thought but keeping his outward face passive as he said it. "Do you know where he is? I was going to ask him but I accidentally deleted his number and. . . ." He shrugged. The 'accidental' deletion had never actually taken place -- Kurt still had Sebastian's number, solely for the purpose of knowing if it was him or some unknown number calling -- but Jeff didn't know that. And, thankfully, Jeff was one of the more gullible Warblers, susceptible to rumors as long as they came from 'reliable sources.' Kurt felt almost bad for half-lying to him, but he also knew that it was critical he isolate Sebastian for this particular confrontation and the only way that would happen would be to take the battle to his court.

Jeff looked at him in blank surprise before shrugging slightly and saying, "He was hanging out in his room studying last I heard. Do you, uh, want to come up?" He gestured back at the locked door, dangling his dorm keys in one hand.

Kurt hid a grin. "If wouldn't mind?" he added, inflecting just enough apology and exasperation into his voice that it would have fooled himself if he hadn't known better.

Jeff nodded, seeming appeased, and turned around, unlocking the door and pushing it open for him. Kurt thanked him and walked past, resisting the urge to rub his hands together in triumph. It would look too much like scheming at the moment, and while that was close enough to the mark he didn't need Jeff -- or anyone else, really -- knowing that. Even Blaine was simply under the impression that he was out on an 'emergency wardrobe correction.' There were few other events that did not involve other people that would effectively draw Kurt's attention away from his regular preference of staying at home after six on school nights and perhaps curling up on the couch to watch some stupid show that Blaine and Finn liked and meant he could just plant his face in Blaine's side and stay there without feeling guilty about 'missing' anything important. Tonight, however, he needed to do this, because he didn't know when Sebastian would make his next move and he refused to wait for it. He wouldn't be a sitting duck, and he certainly wouldn't let Blaine become a target again, either. Sebastian had proven that he was dangerous, and Kurt was determined to force him away.

So by pitching a fit that was worthy of an Emmy in the 'melodramatic' category, Kurt had managed to dissuade Finn and Blaine from pursuit. It had been easy to get Finn off his case -- the minute his voice reached a certain octave Finn either zoned out or quickly made himself scarce -- but more difficult to convince Blaine to do the same. In the end, Kurt pulled an underhanded 'I need space, Blaine,' that almost made his resolve crumple. Blaine's face had been wounded and apologetic and understanding all in one, and Kurt hated that. He knew that he should have been happy, relieved even that Blaine was so willing to actually follow through with his promise. The thought of actively spending time away from him was foreign to Kurt, and he knew that there were very few things that Blaine could do at this point that would keep Kurt away from him for good. His only consolation as he drove out to Westerville was that Finn would keep the house noisy and Puck and Mike were on their way by the time Kurt had made his equally dramatic exit. Maybe a guys' night was something Blaine could use to his advantage.

Or they'll just ignore him and he'll be left feeling even worse.

Ignoring that, Kurt looked around the hallway leading towards the rooms before turning and slowly ascending the stairwell towards the upperclassmen rooms. He knew the general area Sebastian that would be in -- the east end, farthest from the stairs -- but he had no clue which room specifically Sebastian inhabited. Playing it by ear was a simple method: most Dalton boys were fairly comfortable with everyone else and left their dorm rooms partially open, letting the 'fresh air' waft in and just generally spreading the inviting atmosphere. Kurt needed only to walk past the first four rooms before he saw a familiar figure lounging shirtless on a bed, a book propped in his hands and an intent expression on his face.

It was almost bizarrely comical, seeing Sebastian studious, but Kurt supposed that even the most villainous people occasionally stopped to handle mere mortal handiwork as well. Perhaps it was a book onHow to Steal Someone's Boyfriend and Get Away with It. Then again, he had probably already mastered that art, given his untroubled air about the insofar unsuccessful pursuit of Kurt's boyfriend.

Steadying himself with a breath, Kurt walked over, not startling when Sebastian's eyes flicked up briefly to look at him, almost black in the lighting. Without waiting for him to knock on the door jamb, Sebastian unfolded himself neatly and stood, his long, towering height complemented by his confident gait. If sharks were capable of walking on two legs, Kurt thought, this was exactly what the approach would look like.

Reminding himself that he was in a brightly lit hallway with plenty of witnesses (he had checked the other dorms for inhabitants in passing, of course, and been satisfied with the results), Kurt steeled himself against the natural urge to run away. Instead, he straightened to his own full height, putting them almost equal as Sebastian stepped out of the semi-darkness of his room and looked down at Kurt in mute contemplation.

Sebastian may have been a shark in another life, but Kurt Hummel was no pushover. Passive-aggressive sometimes, perhaps, but largely in control of himself, aware of everything and capable of making decisions because of that. He had given Rachel that solo so long ago despite his wants because he knew it was better in the long run. He had stepped aside when Karofsky's threats became too much because he knew that it wasn't a matter of pride or strength but his own safety.

He had come here because he knew that, faced point-blank, Sebastian's true colors were like opal. Impossible to discern in the dark, but visible and readily distinguished in the light.

There was a hint of familiar arrogance and nonchalance in his gaze, but the overwhelming emotion was interest. A lazy, predatory desire that looked upon Kurt with bored eyes, knowing that its quarry lurked elsewhere.

"Stay away from him," Kurt said, his voice so low that he barely recognized it as his own.

Sebastian laughed softly, a sharp, almost cutting sound through the quiet around them. "If anything, this only convinces me that I'm closer than ever to winning."

"This isn't a game," Kurt spat, and the rage seemed to intensify within him, a sort of lava that took achingly long seconds to build but scorched once it did. "I'm sick of you harassing us. I'm sick of you being near us. I never want you near my boyfriend again, or so help me God I will have you locked up."

"That's a harsh way to treat someone who saved his ass," Sebastian pointed out, his eyes light and inquiring, with only the faintest shade of contempt that showed he was listening at all.

"Says the person that spiked his drink."

A long, slow smile crossed Sebastian's face. "You take everything far too literally. How do you know that I didn't just want to see how he would react?"

Kurt actually stepped forward until he could properly glower at him and said in the same low voice as before, "Because people like you don't do anything without having some ulterior motive in mind. I know who you are, Sebastian. You're a bastard. You don't care about other people. You just want them for whatever physical pleasure you can get from them, and then to leave them as soon as you're bored."

Sebastian smirked. "You make it sound so simple."

"Stay -- the hell -- away -- from my boyfriend," Kurt growled.

"And you call me a selfish bastard," Sebastian said, chuckling. "Who's the selfish one, now?"

The next moment was a blur, but Kurt found his fist captured mid-swing in Sebastian's hand, a light, almost teasing grasp that still carried surprising strength. "Uh uh," Sebastian chided. "You wouldn't want to break your flawless reputation, now, would you?"

"Over someone like you? I could make an exception," Kurt said, kneeing Sebastian in the groin.

"And let me just say this," Kurt added, while Sebastian predictably doubled over. It was a reaction that no male with a pulse could avoid, and Kurt relished the sudden authority, even if Sebastian's attention could hardly be classified as undivided. "I'm not letting you get away with any of this," he said. "The Warblers will know who you are. I already know, and soon enough you're going to find yourself without a single person here that will even stand near you. And do you know why? Because you're evil, Sebastian. I don't know what you did that night, but I know that whatever it was had nothing to do with compassion."

Sebastian straightened after a long pause, his posture seemingly diminished by the blow, almost hunched as he glared at Kurt. He looked more like a vulture now, wary but still contemplative, considering the situation from all angles. "So I'm utterly incapable of compassion, then?" he asked at last, voice almost dry.

Kurt nodded once sharply. "Don't even try and convince me otherwise," he warned. "I just came here for one thing." Ignoring the unnerving possibility that Sebastian would snap the door shut behind him, Kurt pushed past him and snatched Blaine's phone off the dresser, tucking it into his pocket. Sebastian watched him with amused eyes all the while, shaking his head at Kurt's efforts. Kurt shouldered past him, grateful to be back in the hallway, doing his best to ignore the sudden racing of his heart. He hated the momentary spell when he had been inside of Sebastian's room. Walking 'into the lion's den' had never seemed more appropriate to Kurt.

"Once you've figured it out," Sebastian said at last, smirking, "let me know." Then he turned around and, without a word, shut the door behind himself.

Kurt frowned at his back but turned back to the hallway, walking briskly down it, pulling Blaine's phone out after a moment. He scrolled through the messages halfheartedly, knowing that Sebastian would have erased anything he sent. The messages were unsurprisingly missing, with no evidence of any activity over the past two days.

Whatever you are, Kurt thought, pocketing the phone as he sat back in the driver's seat of his Navigator, you're not a good person. You didn't help Blaine.

Feeling mollified with the first phase of his plan complete, Kurt pulled out his own phone before turning on the ignition and writing a quick text to Nick.

Call me after the Warblers' meeting. - Kurt.


	39. Chapter 39

Blaine spent that Sunday night sleepless, closing his eyes and feigning it when he heard Kurt enter through the front door, padding quietly across the carpet until he crept near silently up the stairs. There was a deliberate pause just inside the threshold that Blaine thought was him assessing the situation, trying to see if anyone else was awake before an almost visible tension drained from his shoulders.

Blaine guiltily wondered if he had been unsuccessful in his wardrobe endeavor and was therefore even more upset now than before. Kurt's dissatisfaction was a quiet thing: although he vocally expressed his outrage, he kept his disappointment tucked safely within, a fact that Blaine had only truly discovered when he had accidentally stumbled across Kurt one morning in his bedroom at Dalton just sitting on the edge of his bed looking devastated.

Although Blaine had been tempted to back out of the room as quickly as possible and pretend that he had never come across him in such an intense state, Blaine had been forced to confront the issue when Kurt had looked at him with hollow eyes, vaguely inquiring. There was something about his grief that was deeper than simply anger or frustration or regret, and it had spurred Blaine into action before he was even consciously thinking about it. In the end, he had found himself sitting cross-legged on the bed while Kurt paced, listening attentively as he digressed on the bullying issues he still faced back at McKinley. Blaine's heart had ached for him, longing to step in and somehow make things better for him, knowing that there was no way he could. He was one person, and a rather small one at that, incapable of standing up to Goliaths like Karofsky.

Kurt had felt the same way then, giving Blaine this heartbroken, pleading look that begged him for a solution.

Blaine would never have forgiven himself if he had simply said that there was nothing he could do to stop it, and while he still regretted that his advice -- his hypocritical advice -- to be courageous had resulted in Karofsky kissing Kurt, he wouldn't have changed it. In retrospect, he might have tried to get the teachers involved somehow, to force the administration to play their hand, but he had walked that road before and faced the painful disappointment of a society that just didn't care.

You could just tell that . . . no one really cared.

It had been true that no one at Hawthorne had been sad to see his back. The teachers were sympathetic, offering to set him up with counseling that 'might help' while simultaneously refusing to take a stand on their own. Overall, the faculty seemed to see his issue as a nuisance, a thorn that refused to be dug out smoothly and instead remained small, barely visible, and exquisitely painful. On Blaine's side of the story, there was more than just the aggravation of a small problem, a deep, intense animosity building between him and the jocks until it reached explosive proportions.

By the time the Sadie Hawkins dance came around, he knew that he wasn't thinking rationally anymore. He just wanted something -- anything -- that would make someone notice that he existed beyond a basket-case in desperate need of an ally. It had been a cry for help as much as attention, and in the end he had received both, if indirectly. The transfer to Dalton had been ideal, and while he sometimes regretted that he couldn't stand up to the jocks' casual taunts and had to push them far enough over the edge that they would follow through with the hundreds of indifferent threats they made, he didn't regret that he had left once he did. He had needed an out, something, anything that would make the indifference end, and Dalton had been it.

He had run because he couldn't keep living like he was the only person alive anymore. He couldn't take being so insignificant that none of the teachers would fight for him, even if that was a petty reason to practically invite the jocks to attack him. He had just wanted someone to stand beside him. For a brief, wonderful time, Luke had been that person, but then everything had crumbled down once they decided to cross the unspoken line and show everyone that this wasn't some closeted relationship. Blaine had come out and invited Luke to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

He should have known then that it wouldn't have worked out, because no story was that perfect. Murphy's law dictated that his happiness could only be marginal compared to his suffering, and in the end he had fled from Hawthorne before it could completely destroy who he was. Dalton had revived that within him, bringing to life the side of him that would always be a leader, a team member, a kindred spirit who loved music.

With his eyes closed and his breaths steady and even, Blaine listened to Kurt's quiet footsteps until they were no more, then the faint, barely there noise of his door creaking shut. Finn didn't stir from his room, the darkened halls and rooms seeming to add a new level of silence to the air. Without two of the Hudson-Hummels, the house felt emptier than usual, and although Blaine purposefully steered away from mentioning it aloud, he could tell Kurt felt similarly. It wasn't so much that he couldn't stand the thought of being away from Burt and Carole for so long: it just felt bizarre not having them around. He had grown accustomed to always having that extra parental support around even if he scrupulously avoided imposing. He never wanted to seem like he was taking advantage of their generosity and so he kept a careful distance, doing his best not to ask too much or stay too long.

It made his throat dry sometimes with how jealous he was of Kurt's relationship with his parents. He struggled to imagine a world where he lived with parents that had no trouble making small talk or pretending to understand when he went off into weird tangents about his current obsessions. No matter how many ideas he toyed with to try and mend things with his own parents, he knew that those were realities that would never be. The opportunities had already come and gone, and no matter how wholeheartedly the Hudson-Hummels had unofficially adopted him, he couldn't help the twinge of envy he felt when he thought about what his life would have been like if he had had a support system like that.

They're like parents now, he reminded himself, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling absently.

Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, Blaine sat up, restless and discontent. He half-wanted to pursue Kurt and ask him what was wrong, but he also knew that, given Kurt's earlier rage, he probably wouldn't want Blaine intruding. Worse, he would be angry if Blaine tried to 'pry' and accuse him of not giving him any space, especially after his horrible invasion of Kurt's space.

Because Kurt had given him such a privilege just by agreeing to be his boyfriend, and Blaine had never really appreciated it quite enough now that he stood on the edge of losing it all. He knew that Kurt was reluctant to sever all ties with him completely -- the thought was unfathomable to Blaine -- but he also knew that he had a lot of ground to make up for. Yes, they had discussed 'hands visas' and sometimes Kurt had even wryly mentioned that maybe they could upgrade to more 'global' access, but in the end Blaine had simply shrugged and backed off the issue. He didn't want to rush Kurt, and he feared that whatever signals he was presenting were making Kurt believe that unless he started picking up the pace, Blaine would abandon him.

It still amazed Blaine how many different sides there were to him, especially now knowing more about his opinions on exploring a little. Kurt had been more open-minded than Blaine had ever known him over the past month, and it startled Blaine to realize just how much he liked the idea of maybe going farther with Kurt. He knew that he should be retreating as fast as he could, if only because he knew that once they went forward it would be next to impossible to step back into this same comfortable world they had already established. Instead, they would build their comfortable world anew, extending boundaries and perhaps crossing them before retreating and re-marking and figuring it out again.

Blaine supposed that he had been somewhat naïve to think that Kurt would never want to go further with him, even if he had seemed adamant pre-relationship that he preferred the 'touch of the fingertips' to anything more. Now, however, Blaine knew he that he had crossed a line and, unfortunately, really crossed the line. He wanted to find a solid surface and bang his head repeatedly against it for trying to coerce Kurt into car sex. Granted, he had been drunk (or at least, drugged) and fairly out of it at the time. To him, it had seemed like the most amazing idea ever, all warmth and friction and closeness and perfection that he literally couldn't comprehend why Kurt didn't want it then, why he wasn't as desperate for Blaine as Blaine was for him.

A goodly portion of that night had been spent wondering if he was physically repulsive to Kurt. Kurt did appreciate romance and Broadway musicals, after all, so perhaps he loved the charming gentlemanly quality Blaine had without wanting him sexually in return. They had discussed a lot about Kurt's comfort and Kurt's boundaries without broaching the topic of whether Blaine felt the same way. So he had automatically assumed, after the talk and the drink and the dancing, that maybe Kurt really wanted this and he should start taking the hints for once.

After all, Kurt had been frustrated and disappointed with him for months while he was struggling to define his relationship with Kurt, balancing the line between friendship and more for weeks. Blaine knew, in retrospect, that he had been leaping foolishly to conclusions and drawing lines where no connections were present. Kurt had said that he would like to go further eventually, yes, but not in the back of a car and certainly not on a night Blaine was drunk (drugged). The moment Kurt started to push him away Blaine should have let him go, but instead his hands had wrapped themselves more firmly around Kurt as he desperately tried to convince him that no, no, no, no stay here, stay here, please.

Wincing slightly, Blaine ran a hand over his face. The rest of the night was mostly a blur -- he remembered Kurt shouting at him and saying something back that sounded angry before staggering off into the cold alone. Concentrating on the memories that refused to come easily, Blaine could decipher the shadowy moments when a pair of lean hands wrapped around his arm and dragged him out of sight around the corner of the building, ignoring his staggering. He could remember apologizing to Kurt and voicing his doubts aloud, asking, begging if Kurt would just tell him why he was so unattractive that he didn't want to be with him anymore.

Dimly, like a half-remembered dream, Blaine recollected sitting in the back seat of a car and then, perhaps twenty minutes, maybe an hour later, lying across the same seat with a hoodie underneath his head. (If he pried, he could recall pulling the hoodie off the floor of the car to tuck underneath his head.) He remembered feeling sick to his stomach and unpleasantly heavy, sluggish and fuzzy-minded. The hardest part was remembering any transition between the back seat of the car and the red carpet in Kurt's bathroom just before he collapsed against the toilet in a fit of retching. He tried to focus on any events in between, musing over different possibilities in a vain attempt to jog his memory.

At last, he concluded that somewhere in that blank space Sebastian had dropped him off near the Hudson-Hummels and he had made his way back on his own. How that occurred, Blaine didn't know, since by the time Finn had opened the door, looking deeply confused, he had only had the energy to wobble to the bathroom before promptly losing his battle against building nausea.

He wished, both for his own peace of mind and Kurt's, that he could remember the entire night. Everything lost its clarity after that stupid drink at the bar, an occurrence that he remembered in no greater detail than the physical act of taking the glass and drinking half of it. He couldn't remember why he had, or whether or not Sebastian had been nearby when he accepted it. He didn't remember any of the space in between aside from a blur of bodies and sometimes tall leanness that was Sebastian or slender familiarity that was Kurt. It was no small wonder that Kurt was upset with him: according to his largely uncooperative memories, he had spent at least half the night dancing with Sebastian.

The hardest part now was trying to re-earn Kurt's trust. Blaine knew that he had crossed the boundaries, but he also knew that words could only solve so much. If he had just gotten a little drunk and tried to fool around, then he might have been able to use words alone to fix the problem. Having accepted a drink from an unknown stranger, demonstrated an utter lack of preference in dance partners, nearly had sex with his boyfriend in the back seat of a car, and wandered off on his own completely inebriated only to be kidnapped by said poor-taste dance partner, Blaine knew that Kurt had plenty of reasons for distrusting him right now. He had shown that Sebastian could, with one drink, reduce him to near devastating foolishness. If Sebastian had been any less bound to gray-shaded morals, Blaine knew, he would have taken advantage of him. And that was a thought that did not bear long contemplation, as the results were too horrific to consider.

You had the crap beaten out of you because you went to a high school dance with another guy. How could you have been so stupid?

Blaine didn't know, and in a way he wished he could impress that on Kurt, but he also knew that this was his struggle to sort out. He had to re-earn Kurt's trust, not try and earn his pity or empathy. Kurt would understand -- did understand -- his regret, but then Blaine had to prove that he wanted their relationship to continue.

This is just one more obstacle to overcome. We've dealt with worse things.

Of course, thinking about Karofsky wasn't helpful as he was part of the problem, another gay individual in their lives that Blaine really didn't want to have to deal with right then. He had to focus on Kurt and Kurt alone, regardless of what ground that put him on with Karofsky later on.

Sitting up on the couch, Blaine spent the better part of an hour trying to think of ways to make Kurt see that he was sorry for what he had done and wanted to be forgiven. He knew that a verbal apology, while helpful, was not nearly enough to suffice, and that if he wanted to prove to Kurt that he was genuinely interested in repairing their relationship he would need to do something more sincere.

It was almost four in the morning by the time he figured it out, but in the end he was glad he spent the extra hours thinking, as it gave him time to get his thoughts back in order and calm down from the mild panic attacks that kept trying to overwhelm him. Mostly they consisted of questions such as how can I fix this? and how am I supposed to get him to forgive me after that?

He just had to remember that Kurt had chosen him once and there had been a reason, and that he had chosen him again even after Blaine had offered him a guilt-free out to their relationship. That showed that, if nothing else, Kurt wanted to forgive him and trust him again.

Blaine just needed to give him the reasons.

. . .Blaine could do that.

* * *

Kurt was pleased to hear from Nick the next morning saying that Sebastian was on probation. Of course, revealing Sebastian's entire manipulative background would have required divulging details that Kurt wasn't willing to surrender (after all, some of those were self-incriminating, especially the gay bar and everything therein), but there were definitely things that he could tell Nick.

Sebastian stealing Blaine's phone, for example, and stalking his friends. Sebastian outing Dave Karofsky. (Although, mercifully, the backlash from that seemed confined to a specific group of people, and whether any of those were threatening had yet to be discovered. Kurt was confident that Karofsky would be able to handle it, but the sheer thought of outing anyone still made his blood boil.) And, of course, the well-known incident of Sebastian spilling unwanted details from Blaine's past to Jacob Ben Israel. Having called an emergency Warbler meeting that night, it had been decided by a four-fifths majority that Sebastian had crossed too many lines. Even with regionals approaching and the effort it would cost the Warblers to effectively dispatch their foremost singer just before the competition, the truth had won out.

Of course, this is mostly just your word against his, Kurt mused, knowing that part of that dubious fifth was not convinced Sebastian was as evil as Kurt painted him to be. The worst he had done in their eyes was the visit to McKinley: everything else fell into a twisted he-said-she-said argument. Kurt knew he was right, fortifying his arguments against any doubts that Nick expressed, and in the end he was relatively certain that he had finally convinced the Warblers that there was a dangerous member in their midst that needed to be neutralized. In spite of Sebastian's authority, he was still only one member, and in a group as tight-knit as the Warblers, no one wanted such a poisonous influence.

Kurt was still admittedly surprised that Nick had gotten the Warblers to agree so quickly. Even with the evidence set against him, Sebastian still had the advantage of a rapidly approaching competition to work for him. It was a near crippling decision to oust one's lead singer with less than two weeks to spare, but Kurt knew that the Warblers were strong vocally and could find a replacement if need be. And now that there was need, he was curious to see who would rise to the occasion.

Stretching luxuriously in bed, Kurt tossed back the covers and slid out, padding barefoot to the bathroom. His clock showed that it was just after six, and Finn was probably sitting half-conscious at the table eating whatever breakfast he could reach without standing up. The normalcy of the situation soothed Kurt, even though he still somewhat missed the quiet chatter of Carole and his dad. Doing his best to ignore that, he went through his morning routine without much thought, letting the simplicity of it calm his nerves.

He had won the first round against Sebastian -- get him out of the Warblers -- but now he had to wait for the rebound. By taking away his position of power, he forced Sebastian to either re-focus and regroup or lose his authority at Dalton. If there was anything Kurt had learned about Sebastian, it was that he craved power more than most people needed air and would not last long in any inferior position. He would be back and ready to retaliate, but for the moment, Kurt was willing to breathe a sigh of relief that he had at least gotten that much done.

Humming slightly to himself as he finished tying his boots, Kurt strode confidently out of his room, trotting nimbly downstairs. He blinked once in surprise at the sharp, brilliant aroma of hot chocolate wafting from the kitchen, surprised at Finn's resourcefulness. Finn buttering toast was a dangerous affair -- putting water in a cup and heating it for a minute before mixing it with the cocoa was practically begging for disaster.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen Kurt realized that there was no way Finn had made the hot chocolate because Finn would never have been able to actually make hot chocolate. From scratch, nonetheless. Finn was sitting half-conscious at the table as per usual with a stack of waffles in front of him looking content. Kurt blinked as he noticed a sticky note attached to a nearby mug and, after tossing a requisite glance at Finn to see if it was his doing, pealed it off carefully.

Good morning.

I love you.

B.

Smiling slightly in spite of himself, Kurt took a tentative sip, expecting scalding water and receiving only a pleasantly hot chocolate-laced taste in return. Absentmindedly wondering if Blaine's time as a barista had taught him how to make hot chocolate from scratch, Kurt sipped at it throughout his pre-school regime, barely noticing that he still had the mug in hand even as he attempted to shrug into his coat. With a quick look to see that Finn had not seen him being ridiculous -- he hadn't -- Kurt set the empty mug down on the coffee table and tugged his gray coat on neatly.

The weather outside was bitter, a brisk wind snapping at his face the instant he dared venture forward. Walking over to his Navigator, he hopped in the driver's seat and shut the door behind him, turning on the heat low and letting the engine run a little, waiting for the car to heat up. Once it had, he put it to a more comfortable level, basking in his sanctuary from the cold. He preferred warm weather to cold when given the option and dry sunny days to frigid snowy ones on any occasion. Lima had been blessed insofar with a lack of snowy weather that seemed on the precipice of breaking, if the steel-gray clouds overhead were any indication. Kurt sighed slightly as he realized that he would have to break out the real boots soon, not simply fashionable designs that were stylish if not necessarily practical in three feet of snow.

Pulling out of the driveway, it wasn't until he had parked in the student parking lot at McKinley that he realized that he had no idea where Blaine was. A brief flare of momentary panic was promptly squashed as he saw him standing by the student entrance with a bemused look on his face as he watched the sky, Brittany chattering away cheerfully beside him. Kurt was glad to see that he was not alone -- despite his actions against Sebastian he knew that it would take weeks before he was truly comfortable with Blaine being alone anywhere -- even if the reason was because of Brittany.

Ignoring the semi-slick ground (the early-morning frost had yet to melt), Kurt sidled over to them. ". . . I couldn't find him any four-leaf clovers, but I think he'll be okay anyway, because he's magic and everything," Brittany was saying. "I mean, that's how leprechauns are, right?"

"Sure," Blaine agreed easily, nodding and looking over at Kurt before beaming. "Hi," he said, a hat tucked over his hair, his cheeks flushed with the cold. "Ready?"

"For what?" Kurt asked warily. Brittany had stopped talking about the leprechaun and was watching the two of them with vague interest, looping one arm through Blaine's after a moment's thought. He let her, which Kurt thought was unusual, since he tended to avoid cozying up to Brittany if he could help it. Ever since Santana had given him a firm 'Brittany is my girl' lecture at the beginning of the year (which Kurt had not heard of until less than a week ago when they were discussing the frustrations of girls in general), he tended to avoid seeming like he was being overly friendly to her. Now, however, he simply grinned and gestured towards the door, which Brittany looked at for a moment before flouncing over, tugging him along after her. Kurt followed cautiously behind them, uncertain if this was one of those good plans or good-intentions-with-bad-results plans.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about their entrance, unless the lack of jocks qualified. Kurt supposed it was refreshing to avoid a slushy-facial when it was already approaching freezing outside, but he knew that this was also probably due to the fact that the glee club had removed the slushy machines. Inwardly patting himself on the back for the maneuver, Kurt bumped into Blaine's back before realizing he had stopped, blushing slightly as he withdrew and re-focused to see what was so interesting.

"Oh. Hullo," a blue-eyed boy said, his Irish accent clear as Brittany released Blaine's arm in favor of taking the new kid's instead. "You must be Kurt Hummel."

"Yes," Kurt agreed, blinking in surprise. This must be the leprechaun.

"Me name's Rory Flanagan," the leprechaun said, holding out a hand perfunctorily. Kurt lifted his eyebrows slightly before shaking it, reminded firmly of the time when he had first met Blaine.

My name's Blaine.

Of course, given the way Rory surreptitiously beamed at Brittany while trying to look fully attentive to Kurt, Kurt was pretty sure he wouldn't have to worry about another gay boy competing for his boyfriend.

A dry half-smile threatened to cross his face before he suppressed it. Once, you would have given almost anything to have just one other person there. Now there's too many.

Karofsky and Sebastian hardly counted as candidates, however, and Kurt knew dating Jeff would have been like dating his younger brother. Awkward to say the least.

"These two've been tellin' me all about what you did aroun' here," Rory added. "I heard you're like, the class president or something."

Kurt nodded. Rory continued before he could ask whether there was some deeper meaning he was supposed to divine from this conversation.

"Y'know, I think it's really cool what you're doin' aroun' here. 'Bout bullyin'. I'm totally on-board for someone steppin' in and stoppin' the violence like that. Back home, it was kind of rough," he rubbed the back of his neck apologetically. "But Britt here's tol' me a lot about you guys here in America, and I see that she was right."

Kurt blushed a little more under the praise. "I . . . it just needed to happen, you know?" he managed. It felt strange, speaking with a straight guy that barely knew him who actually supported something he had done.

"Yeah," Rory agreed. "Totally. Hey, where's this glee club of yours, anyway? I was talkin' to Principal Figgins earlier and he said you have a pretty kick arse club. Err. Ass. Sorry."

Blinking in disbelief, unsure if he was more surprised at Figgins recommending the glee club with any sort of approval or Rory expressing interest, Kurt gestured down the hall, telling him where the choir room was while Rory nodded and let Brittany cuddle up to his side.

"Thanks a lot," he said at last, beaming at Kurt before turning and walking off in that direction. Brittany walked beside him chatting enthusiastically about 'magic dust,' which, Kurt thought, was something he really didn't want to know.

"He seems like a nice guy," Blaine said, startling Kurt. He had almost forgotten he was there, although to his credit Blaine had disappeared, he was certain, because now he had his books in his arms and looked ready for class. "I figured you might like him."

"What, because he's Irish?"

Laughing slightly, Blaine rolled his eyes and shook his head before giving Kurt's hand a brief squeeze and walking off. "See you later," he called over his shoulder.

The rest of the day was uneventful, but Kurt was grateful for the reprieve from the chaos that seemed to have taken over his and Blaine's lives. He enjoyed sitting through French if only because he could already flawlessly converse with his partner, who seemed no less glaze-eyed and confused than the rest of the class by the time the teacher came to their pair and monitored their progress. Calculus was brutal, as per usual -- the day that Kurt Hummel could easily solve complicated math problems was a long day away -- but English was almost enjoyable, since Mr. Barter was so ancient that Kurt was able to text Nick the entire time without feeling too guilty about it. He found out that Sebastian hadn't been up to anything devious since his temporary expulsion from their midst, apparently content to be quiescent.

Although unconvinced he would remain that way for long, Kurt responded that he was glad things seemed to be going well and hoped they could find a suitable replacement so that the New Directions could beat them at regionals without feeling like they had won by default. Sectionals were always held based on the area of the state a performing group was in, and the Warblers' sectionals' competition differed from the New Directions' because of that. The regionals' competitions, however, covered the state-wide victors from these sectionals' performances, pitting groups like Vocal Adrenaline, the Warblers, and the New Directions against each other.

With the graduation of Jesse St. James and a fair portion of the remaining Vocal Adrenaline automatons, Kurt held a fair amount of confidence that the New Directions could actually defeat them. His most pressing concern was numbers: Vocal Adrenaline was truly a wall of sound while the New Directions barely scraped off the minimum twelve required members. (With the loss of Sam and Lauren and the acquisition of Marcus and Blaine, they still had enough to qualify.) Nevertheless, as three-year pros at the game and seniors to boot, Kurt knew that the New Directions were motivated and determined to win. As long as the Warblers found a suitable lead soloist, he looked forward to the healthy competition between the groups.

Kurt walked into the choir room that afternoon feeling invigorated. With Sebastian temporarily neutralized and his plans for McKinley insofar unchallenged, he felt he had reason to feel confident.

The majority of the New Directions had already shuffled into the room by the time he appeared, stepping up to the top row and selecting his usual seat near the end. He blinked in surprise as he noticed that Rory had actually followed through with his interest and was sitting in the middle row, looking around the choir room curiously. Leaning back and looking across the group speculatively, Kurt frowned as he realized that Blaine was the only one missing.

Mr. Schue stepped in a moment later, Blaine a pace behind and smiling slightly at all of them, his hands clasped in front of him in a gesture that Kurt recognized as nervousness. Raising his eyebrows, wondering what had prompted it, Kurt tilted his head to one side as Blaine halted in the middle of the room, his hands still clasped around each other. What's going on?

"Blaine here has something he wanted to say," Mr. Schue said, nodding at Blaine, who leaned back on his heels before looking at them all.

"These past few weeks have been hard on all of us," he said, "but I'm really glad that, thanks to Kurt, we've been able to finally have some authority around here." He inclined his head at Kurt, smiling a little more broadly, and Kurt could have sworn he saw his hands relax their death grip slightly before resuming. "I just . . . I know it's not really my place to be saying this," and here he cast a surreptitious look at Finn that spoke volumes after the way Finn had pointedly ignored him during most glee club meetings, "but I wanted to just remind us all why we're here. To have fun. I know that I haven't been one of you guys for long, but glee club always used to be about having fun. It was the one place I could get away to that made me feel like I was alive for a few hours, and I know for many of you it's been the same way. We might be outcasts and misfits out there," he gestured with one hand at the door before clasping his hands together again, a soft, smooth gesture that Kurt was certain no one else noticed, "but in here, we're just . . . one big dysfunctional family. And here's a tribute to that."

He nodded at Brad, who gave him a thumbs up before the rest of the jazz members on standby took their places.

And then he sang. Kurt almost burst out laughing as soon as he recognized that it was a Katy Perry song (some things never change), more so when Santana literally dragged Brittany off the floor where she had been happily playing along with Blaine's antics. The rest of the song passed in a blur as Blaine wound his way around the room, and before Kurt was consciously thinking about stopping himself he had joined in, naturally slipping into his role as a performer. He knew that somehow he and Blaine joined in the middle before without even consciously thinking how it would work or who was responsible for what, they did a twirl that did make Kurt laugh before Artie came careening forward, forcing them to separate. Blaine's voice carried high and strong above it all, its rich tenor sound a pleasant contrast to Finn's or Artie's or even Puck's. By the time he finished the final notes, Kurt found himself standing a few feet away leaning against the piano, laughing breathlessly.

"Meet me in the auditorium in twenty minutes," a voice murmured in his ear, a pair of warm hands wrapping around his waist briefly to give him a hug before Blaine backed aside and beamed at the rest of them.

"That was some pretty fancy footwork there," Rory was saying to Mike, looking at him in something akin to awe. "Care to teach me?"

The rest of the group laughed, and while Kurt couldn't help thinking, I can't believe you choose a Katy Perry song about breaking the law and acting stupid, he also couldn't help thinking that it was nice to see everyone in higher spirits. Mr. Schue was beaming at them all, of course, the proud adoptive father as always, but Kurt was mostly glad that they were still capable of doing silly meaningless numbers like that without someone protesting that they needed to prepare for a competition or that it sent a horrible message.

Deciding that he would follow through with Blaine's invitation -- despite a small, petty side of him that wanted to refuse purely because he still hadn't forgiven Blaine for what he had done -- Kurt settled back into his seat with the rest of the group as Mr. Schue picked up on his usual lecture.

* * *

"Katy Perry?"

"She's a cultural icon," Blaine said without missing a beat, finishing the final lunging twirl he had to perform for Tony. It calmed him to practice, and with the daunting task of regaining Kurt's trust before him, he needed something as simple and soothing as a character to slip into. It was always easier confronting other people's problems, especially when those people were fictional, simply because he didn't have to worry about what would happen to him personally if he failed. The days when he and Kurt had silently battled against Karofsky defied this nature, though, since Blaine cared about Kurt's problems as much if not even more than his own. The fact that he had created the tension between them made him want to drop on his knees and grovel until Kurt saw that he really, really didn't mean any of it and he would give anything to rewind the clock and never let that night happen.

At least it had been a Thursday: Blaine's song choice would have been doubly dubious if Last Friday Night had implied actions about the same night that they had gone to Scandals. It was a risk, but he was glad he had taken it: singing calmed him like nothing else could (well. Besides Kurt). Katy Perry was one of those 'comfort artists' he referred to whenever he needed something light and fun and just a little out-there from the more serious and meaningful song selections that people like Kurt appreciated. She was the reason he met Kurt, indirectly: if he had not been performing Teenage Dream that day, he wouldn't have been in a hurry to get downstairs instead of taking a more roundabout path that would have gotten him there sooner. He would never have met Kurt, and the difference it might have made was almost impossible to comprehend.

Kurt was walking slowly across the stage now, spending a long moment to look sweepingly across it all, taking it all in. Blaine could understand that -- despite his love for the group performances and the team dynamics he had with the Warblers, sometimes the things he loved most about performing could only be enjoyed alone. Just standing on the stage comforted him, his earlier insecurities about performing banished. He would get through whatever obstacles stood in his path because singing was something he loved, and Blaine would be damned if he started living a life that was anything but. He had pursued things that set him apart even when they resulted in things like the Sadie Hawkins dance because that was who he was.

Watching Kurt, he couldn't help reflecting that sometimes it was nice to have someone else around. Someone who understood just how beautiful and captivating and liberating an empty stage was.

"So what prompted this meeting?" Kurt asked, his voice soft enough that the words were not nearly as accusing as they might have been.

Blaine reached out with his hands in wordless supplication. Kurt hesitated before surrendering his own, letting Blaine's fingers curl gently around them.

"I can't even begin to tell you how much I love you," Blaine said, meeting Kurt's gaze steadily. "It's . . . what I feel for you I have never felt for another person. And I don't want anyone to get hurt, but if you get hurt . . . it's like I can't breathe when you're hurting. And I know I hurt you, and that kills me, Kurt. Because I know there's nothing -- nothing -- that I can do to change what happened. But I want you to be happy. I want to see you smile and laugh like you did today." His thumbs fidgeted restlessly, insisting on lightly tracing Kurt's knuckles, and Blaine was grateful that instead of flinching away Kurt tolerated the action. "I just want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, more than any words -- more than any song can describe. Did you know that I even considered singing to you as an apology?" he added, laughing a little bitterly at himself. "But I knew it was stupid, and that I'm so stupid sometimes, Kurt, and I just can't . . . I don't even know what to do. I'm sorry. I'm really, really, really sorry. I don't want to lose you but I just need you to trust me again, because I love you, I love you so, so, so much, Kurt, and--"

"Shh," Kurt said softly. Blaine took a ragged breath and forced himself to stop, because he was supposed to be reasoning with Kurt, not bleeding his emotions all over him. However, there was a softness to Kurt's gaze that hadn't been there before, a quality that showed that maybe just saying it all instead of trying to craft some cool and quasi-perfect model of apology would be more valuable. A song might have had the right words where he kept fumbling and a much more suitable amount of romance, but it wouldn't have been what he meant. And what he meant was that despite making such a horrible mistake -- and God, now was not the time to be thinking about what could have happened if Sebastian really had been capable of rape -- he wanted Kurt. As a person, as an individual, as everything.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and if his voice was choked then at least Kurt was close enough he heard anyway.

Kurt sighed and disentangled his left hand, brushing his thumb against Blaine's (mercifully dry) cheek. "I know," he said quietly, and there was such depth to his eyes that Blaine ached to let him know, somehow, that he loved Kurt and that was what made this next to impossible. Because he couldn't live if he failed, because failing meant living without Kurt.

"I love you. I love you so much--"

Kurt hushed him non-verbally this time, and Blaine just closed his eyes and kissed back, desperate and apologetic and pleading. He stayed there, Kurt's arms curled around his shoulders, until at last oxygen deprivation threatened to make him pass out. Turning his head slightly, gasping against Kurt's cheek, he managed, "Please forgive me," in a voice that was so low he doubted Kurt could hear it, despite their proximity.

Two soft words broke all his suspicions, however, banishing the raging doubts within him.

"I do," was all Kurt said.

* * *

By mutual unspoken consent, things were mending between them. Kurt sat at the island counter while Blaine brewed another batch of hot chocolate, the silence comfortable instead of tense as it had been. Once they both had mugs and were settled across the table from each other, Kurt asked him and learned that Blaine had in fact learned to make hot chocolate from his days as a barista. For a time, he was able to lose himself in the comforting simplicity of their conversation, the warmth of the hot chocolate seeming to banish all other trepidations.

Finn didn't disturb them, although he did appear once or twice for snacks, a presence moving seamlessly in the background of their convalescence. After a time, he stopped reappearing, and Kurt could hear the distant noise of video games upstairs.

Maybe it was some form of boyfriend polarity that gravitated him and Blaine to the couch, but before two hours had passed since they rose from the table they found themselves half-lying on the couch, watching some travel network show that held neither of their interests for long. Kurt's attention was soon distracted by the mesmerizing warmth of Blaine's sides, while Blaine's seemed riveted on Kurt's face, watching with sleepy, questioning eyes as he looked back solemnly. After a time Blaine simply closed them, and Kurt felt rather than heard his breathing even out.

Maybe they were rushing back into comfort with each other, but Kurt couldn't help the need he felt to just be with Blaine, even if it was no more than their pre-six month early-tentative-boyfriends phase where cuddling was still overwhelming and kissing a marvel. Kurt had thought he had grown out of the simple pleasure of cozying up to his boyfriend, but he couldn't help feeling warm and sated and protected now, both arms wrapped around Blaine as he let it all soak in. He had missed this, and even with their fight he realized that it was more than just the past week that he had gone without this sort of closeness. Maybe it was because Blaine had poured his heart out, so desperate to convince Kurt that he was sorry, that he realized just how much Blaine needed him. (And, he could admit silently, how much he needed Blaine.) Trying to imagine life without him was impossible, so he didn't, eventually closing his eyes and just listening to the soft drone of the TV in the background.

He thought he heard someone turn off the TV after an uncountable period of time. Footsteps padded away, but Kurt didn't bother open his eyes to see who the intruder was. He was warm and comfortable and not moving, and when he felt a quilt flutter down over him and Blaine he kept his eyes closed and breathed softly. After a moment, he heard someone climbing the stairs, reaching the top after a few seconds and shutting a door.

Kurt smiled slightly to himself and gripped the quilt lightly.

Things would be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but they would be. Of that, he was certain.


	40. Chapter 40

"Hey, kid, I don't think you want to sleep on the floor," a familiar voice told him, giving his shoulder a light shake that drew Blaine out of his sleepy stupor. He blinked dumbly at the coffee table in front of him before looking up and grinning sheepishly at Burt Hummel, who looked similarly weary if relieved to be home. Kurt and Blaine had been attempting to stay up until the remaining Hudson-Hummels reappeared after their week long sojourn to Washington D.C., but somewhere in the midst of filling out college applications (Kurt's insistence: Blaine would have left them for another week but they both needed something to do and there seemed to be little else available late-night on Tuesdays), they had dozed off. Kurt was lying on the couch, his binder and papers tucked neatly around him, one arm draped over his stomach with his pencil still loosely held in hand. Blaine had been sitting against the couch with his legs crossed as he fiddled with one of his applications, the papers now lying sprawled at his side.

He carefully gathered them into a pile before setting them on top of the coffee table, climbing to his feet and doing his best not to disturb Kurt. He was suddenly glad that they had chosen to be productive rather than spend the night watching a re-run and cuddling: even though Blaine trusted Burt, he doubted that he wanted to find him and his son lying so intimately on the couch. Not that they were doing anything, of course, especially after the fight and the tentative reconciliation they had made. Kurt seemed to accept Blaine's apology at face value, and while Blaine was relieved that a semblance of normalcy had returned to their lives, he also knew that their relationship was not fully mended.

The only way to do that was to prove to Kurt that he could handle himself against people like Sebastian. It still made him cringe to think that he had accepted a drink from him, even though he had not known it was Sebastian offering at the time, and he genuinely wished he could have turned back the clock and reversed that decision from ever taking place. Then he and Kurt would still be comfortably submersed in their close, easy-going relationship rather than struggling to find where the right lines were in this tentative healing phase.

Blaine noticed Carole yawning as she started unloading the car and, ignoring his own fatigue, walked over to help her. She tried to wave him off with a tired smile and a pleased exclamation to see him again -- softened, of course, so she wouldn't wake Kurt or Finn -- but he insisted and eventually helped her pull out the rest of the luggage while Burt coaxed Kurt off the couch and Finn off the armchair where he had staked out with a bowl of popcorn and his phone, texting the New Directions guys until he, too, fell asleep.

There was a fair amount of unloading to do, so by the time Carole and he had deposited the last bags at the door Burt had managed to get both Kurt and Finn upstairs. He cast Blaine a look that clearly said, Nothing inappropriate, before looking up at the stairwell, acknowledging that Blaine could stay in the same room as Kurt. Blaine lifted his eyebrows slightly in surprise, opened his mouth to ask him if he should set up the air mattress before Burt shook his head.

I know you won't use it anyway, seemed plain in his expression, although Blaine inwardly protested that he actually would have. He just might only have used it for a few hours, that was all, and then found a more suitable spot beside Kurt in his bed.

Still half-asleep despite the frigid Ohioan air to rejuvenate him, Blaine wandered towards the stairwell, startled when Burt grabbed him in a brief hug first. "Missed you, kid," was all he said.

Blaine's throat felt tight for some unfathomable reason, but he did his best to ignore it as he offered a weak smile in return and a lazy wave of his hand back at him and Carole. He would definitely have more words for them in the morning, of welcome and appreciation that they were back, but it was clear from all of their expressions that there was nothing more appealing than postponing those conversations and climbing into bed.

Gently opening Kurt's door, Blaine sidled over and dropped down with an unceremonious whoomph that made Kurt grunt once before he rolled over and curled the blankets around himself. Blaine chuckled slightly to himself -- Kurt had already told him that he was a blanket-hog and thus reverted to similar tactics to avoid surrendering all the covers at night -- before scooting over and squirming underneath the loose end that Kurt had not claimed for his own. His head hit the pillow and he was out, surrendering to sleep once more.

His dreams were filled with an unspoken tension that night as he flitted between scenes like an actor on a mad stage, the settings changing so frequently it was almost impossible to make out what was occurring before he was whisked away.

There was one scene, however, that stood with him.

He was standing in the center of the stage at the McKinley High auditorium, an overhead light illuminating what appeared to be an authentic night scene, the alleyways to his left and right completely substantial. Casting curious glances between the hundreds of empty red seats in front of him and the unseen space behind, he didn't dare turn around, somehow anticipating that there would be a threat behind him. His breathing quickened as he heard footsteps, and suddenly Luke was standing beside him with one hand halfway to his pocket as his phone buzzed. There was a moment of inexplicable tension where both seemed to realize that the performance was about to turn ugly, that half-second of absolute silence in a horror film before all hell broke loose, and Blaine blinked once before someone came up behind him and dragged him under.

He felt like he was drowning, suffocating under the blows even while his ears buzzed painfully from the impact of his head against the concrete. Looking to his left, desperate to keep the grounding image of the auditorium in front of him, he closed his eyes as he realized that it was gone, the props assembled endlessly down the line. The faceless figure above him was relentless, his vision blurring and fading and misting and jogging awkwardly out of focus as he scrabbled against a foot, an arm, a fist.

Something dragged him over stones and he snarled, clawing against his attacker and wishing that he had something to fling at him. He could feel the heaving, shifting muscle of someone massive overhead before he was hauled upright by his shirt collar. Words, indistinguishable, forgotten forever in a blur of broken activity, were spat in his face. A fist sank into his side, once, twice, three times before he doubled over because even the fist keeping him upright wasn't enough to defy gravity. He crumbled the moment the fist released him and for a moment thought he would be okay.

He heard something snap from his left and cringed as a gut-wrenching yell split the stale air above him a moment later. Everything around him felt insubstantial, unreal, as suddenly a second figure appeared in his line of sight and, the figure's shadowed face a rictus of satisfied repulsion, struck out with a heavy boot. Once, twice, three times, and Blaine curled up and tried to claw at him but suddenly something broke and he couldn't move because God, it hurt so much.

The figures faded, the pain familiar and unrelenting as he felt hot blood raging around it, splintered bones screaming in protest to their brutal treatment. There were footsteps rapidly diminishing in the distance, and it took Blaine a long time to realize that he was barely breathing, his breaths shallow and ragged and quick, puffs of air that made his lungs ache and his ribs scream.

"Tony!" a voice cried out, and Blaine turned his head reflexively even as the world tilted and spun unpleasantly, watching as Kurt stepped forward to protect Maria even as Chino raised his gun. Blaine swallowed hard -- no, no, no, I'm Tony, not Kurt -- but then -- Bang!

And Kurt was falling, falling, falling, and Blaine was horribly convinced that, just as the pain seeping through his side was real, so too was the fatal wound ripping open Kurt's chest. He wanted to look away, horrified, sickened, but he couldn't help the wordless scream that escaped him instead.

"Kurt!"

Blaine awoke with a start, blinking blearily at the ceiling and shivering slightly as he thought of lying on his back on a very different surface. He could hear soft, even puffs of breath nearby. Turning his head towards them, Blaine went boneless with relief as he realized that there was Kurt, perfectly fine and alive and not Tony. A quick glance at the digital clock over his shoulder revealed that it was only three in the morning. Running his hand absentmindedly over his left side, feeling ribs that had long since healed, Blaine breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he reminded himself that it was just a dream. A memory, perhaps, but a dream, overall. He barely remembered the real attack, and mostly his mind seemed to supply images in order to account for his injuries rather than accurately recalling events.

I could have been assaulted again, a quiet voice reminded Blaine, Sebastian could have raped me.

Scooting closer, grateful that Kurt turned over without the slightest indication of waking and draped his arms clumsily over Blaine, Blaine resolved that no matter what, he would guard himself against Sebastian. Even if he couldn't shake him completely, he would keep himself safe, because he had hated where he had been and couldn't imagine putting Kurt through something like that as well.

You screwed up so bad, Blaine.

No, he corrected, his voice seeming a whisper even in his own thoughts, I almost did. I messed up by taking the drink, but I wasn't hurt that way. I was lucky.

I can't rely on luck again.

Determined, he wrapped his arm around one of Kurt's and basked in the warmth and closeness. He owed Kurt more than words could describe for simply being there for him, whether or not he consciously realized he was helping Blaine. Safe and protective and there, he was the one person Blaine knew he could always turn to with any problem. Amazed that he had almost thrown that all away over one stupid drink, Blaine clutched at him, waiting for his racing heart to slow.

Eventually, it did, and when he drifted back to sleep, it was mercifully dreamless.

* * *

The pre-competition high was in full force as the New Directions prepared to compete against the Warblers and Vocal Adrenaline at regionals. Tensions visibly escalated between members as the days dwindled down. Mr. Schue's rants became even more impassioned than usual as he insisted that they were already champions and were more than capable of handling the competition. With the additional motivation of nationals in May to look forward to, there was little else on the glee club's mind but bringing the house down for the upcoming competition.

Rachel was in her element. She had prepared helpful schedules for all of them detailing exactly how many hours of vocal preparation they needed in order to be successful within two days of knowing the exact date of their competition. To Kurt's knowledge, all of these suggestions had been promptly ignored and, courtesy of Puck, the schedules had mysteriously disappeared en masse with no details of where they had vanished to. Rachel, although bewildered that her creations had disappeared so thoroughly, continued to rally them with daily admonitions to practice their scales and be ready to sing their harmonies perfectly. She wanted to bring home a victory to put on her NYADA application, after all, and that would only happen if they all performed exceptionally well.

Of course, her original interpretation that she would be performing a solo and perhaps a duet with Finn was quickly quashed when Finn suddenly announced that he thought the 'new guy' should have the solo.

Kurt winced slightly as he noticed the almost-hopeful way Blaine watched him, his expression disbelieving, before Finn added on the Rory at the end. Blaine sank back into his chair slightly and Kurt couldn't read his expression very well from his angle, although there was a certain resigned relief to it that made Kurt want to ask Blaine about it. Rory had then said something meaningless about being unsure of his own talents before Blaine had turned around partially in his seat and, with a winning smile, assured him that he would be great.

Finn had blinked and stared, momentarily wrongfooted by the support (and evidently baffled that Blaine had felt inclined to make a comment at all on the topic), before he had nodded and retreated to his seat. Overall, the encounter was no exception to the way that Finn and the rest of the guys treated Blaine. Rory they treated like a leprechaun: a magical creature that was regarded in equal parts with trepidation and acceptance. Rory had already auditioned for the New Directions with a solo that put Blaine's number to shame, given its high range. Kurt had looked around the room, disgruntled that someone could reach those notes (he was the exceptional one, after all), and he had unintentionally noticed that no one was giving Rory blank looks or frowns. They were all smiling or beaming, and the contrast to the cold silence that had greeted the unfortunate timing of Blaine's ending number made Kurt want to shake them all.

For weeks, he had done his best to let the past lie and accept that Finn and the guys had reached the limit that their masculinity would allow them to accept another boy from a different school. Rory's appearance had quickly ruined those assumptions, however, because he was a transfer from Ireland, and if his accent didn't single him out, his lack of American cultural know-how certainly did. The fact that one of the hockey jocks had attempted to shove Rory into a locker (before Marcus casually stepped in and rebounded the jock's shove, sending him sprawling on the floor) was clear proof that Rory was as liable to give the glee club a bad reputation as any of its members.

Nevertheless, everyone adopted Rory into the family as though he had always been there. Puck punched him on the shoulder (too hard, but Kurt knew that was just the way Puck was and he didn't seem to know his own strength), Artie wheeled beside him in the halls, Mike showed him how to do certain dance moves even when the rest of the group had already nailed the performance. Perhaps most of all, Finn's attitude towards Rory infuriated Kurt, because he was brotherly and 'I've got your back' and cool with who Rory was. He didn't care that Rory had an Irish accent or that he wore a hideous amount of green. Yes, Kurt could admit that even he enjoyed spending time with their newest member at lunch just talking about European culture that the rest of Lima would have needed an app to explain. Kurt's treatment towards Rory was friendly, but his treatment extended to Blaine, too.

The introduction of Rory to the group seemed to have pushed Blaine largely to the back-burner, however, as the resolutions to remove the slushy machines and stick up for the glee club lost their sway once the act had been done. Kurt was proud of the school board for allowing the decision to stand once the first-week milestone had been passed. He was equally proud that he had instigated it, particularly since none of the jocks had even come near the glee clubbers now that they knew Marcus and Coach Beiste were on high alert. More than once, Kurt saw Coach Beiste talking with Tina or Santana or Mike casually, offering a protective shield against the pack of jocks that refused to split now that the rules seemed to be finally enforced at McKinley. Kurt walked with his head high and his strut in full swing nowadays, but he could tell that for all the good the changes had done, the major repercussion was finally beginning to show.

Blaine had been tolerated at best when he first arrived. Kurt knew that the past history with Jesse St. James didn't work in his favor, but he had still expected the New Directions to come around once they realized Blaine would never betray them like that. The sheer animosity of those early days had amazed and angered Kurt. How the glee club, which had always been accepting and, at worst, tolerant of new members, could be so hostile towards someone like Blaine baffled him. It was most upsetting to see it in Finn, the one person Kurt had thought he could have a guaranteed alliance with, and yet it had been Finn's performance that had been the shakiest when it came to accepting Blaine into the group.

Kurt had almost forgotten than unseen tension as the days passed and different affairs took precedence, but Rory's appearance had revived all the old doubts and loose ends that had not been completely resolved between Blaine and the rest of the guys.

Mike and Artie didn't go out of their way to avoid Blaine, but Kurt noticed after watching them surreptitiously for three days that they also didn't make any effort to strike up conversations with him. Rory they approached like they would Puck or Finn, casual and engaging, and they never seemed to express the same awkward half-pause before speaking that happened whenever they crossed paths with Blaine. Of course, Kurt was present for most of these meetings and therefore knew he detracted somewhat from the simpler option of Rory as a single person, but he also knew that Mike and Artie would have spoken to him if Blaine hadn't been around.

Puck seemed to have forgotten Blaine entirely, barely acknowledging him when he made a comment to the group as a whole. For him, Blaine was a prop, something that occasionally provided a useful measure but was otherwise of no value to him. Rory was more interesting, because Rory had an Irish accent and might join the football team, making him irreversibly one of the glee guys.

Kurt knew that Blaine was probably putting the pieces together -- Blaine was too smart not to -- and it made his outrage flare whenever he thought about it because Blaine was the only glee guy that had never and would never join the football team. He was automatically -- and irrevocably -- an outsider to them. Even Artie had spent time on the field, and Kurt, who would never understand football, had been kicker for a time. Marcus was a tank, and Puck, Finn, and Mike had been on the team for virtually their entire high school careers. It was a daunting position to be in, only worsened by the fact that, with the exception of the cheerleaders, all the girls had been on the football team as well. Rory reluctantly deciding to speak to Coach Beiste about it was as much a bonding topic for the males as it was a rite of passage for his entrance to the glee club as a whole. Once he became a member of the team, however brief, he was hooked, and the rest of the guys would like him.

It was only on days like the following Monday when he walked into the room and saw Blaine sitting in his seat, reviewing a paper with a determined expression, that Kurt remembered just how small he was. It never came up in casual conversation: for one, there was nothing about being taller that Kurt felt made him feel superior to Blaine. If anything, Blaine's maturity under certain situations made him seem like the bigger person. Blaine's strength was not in his physical stature but his experience and knowledge, his compassion and understanding. When he looked up at Kurt, his eyes briefly unfocused as he mentally continued following his previous line of thought, Kurt was struck by the fact that Blaine would never be like Puck or Finn or Mike, because he would never be tall or broad or just huge like they were.

Finn, Puck, and Mike had always been shoo-ins to join the football team. Artie's wheelchair had been less of an impediment and more of a weapon on the field, and Kurt's natural flexibility and finesse had made him a solid choice when he was chosen as well. Marcus was a tank. The girls had been needed and, when the moment arose, seized the opportunity and joined as well. Even Sam, who had moved to Indiana given his family's situation, had been quarterback for a time.

Blaine would never be a football player because he didn't have Finn's natural build or Artie's handicap, Kurt's grace or Marcus' bulk. He just wasn't a football player, and he would be ridiculed if he tried. Kurt knew that he had no interest in joining -- the only sport Blaine ever expressed an interest in was soccer, something that his low center of gravity actually helped in -- but it still frustrated him to know that there was no way Blaine would ever change that part of his involvement with the glee club.

Of course, he could always become a Cheerio like Kurt and Mercedes (as well as Santana, Brittany, and Quinn) had been, but that opened a whole new field of mockery to be had. Blaine just wasn't cheerleading material, and Kurt knew that he would be both offended and wounded if Kurt suggested it. It wasn't that it was an emasculating gesture: it just wouldn't bode well for his already precarious reputation. Kurt wanted to see him accepted by the glee club, not ostracized further.

The worst part of it all was Blaine's quiet acceptance. He didn't protest to Finn's favoritism. If anything, he seemed to encourage Rory to take up the spotlight, making an effort to encourage him even when the others largely ignored him. By the time all was said and done and they were in the final week before the Saturday competition, Rory had secured a solo and Mercedes and Santana would take up a duet after him. Blaine's presence was unneeded, as Rachel insisted on taking over from then on and doing her best to insert her opinion whenever possible. The knowledge that she had the West Side Story production to look forward to after the competition seemed to bolster her spirits even while the knowledge that she wouldn't have any major role seemed to sour them.

Kurt watched Blaine immerse himself in other things, ignoring the glee club almost as thoroughly as it was ignoring him. He read over his Tony lines silently while Mr. Schue lectured them, occasionally frowning or flipping back a few pages to read them from the beginning. It was a testament to how completely Rory's presence had eliminated the tentative progress that had been made towards accepting Blaine into the group that Mr. Schue didn't insist he look up and listen as he would have anyone else. Blaine didn't seem to mind: he threw himself into the effort, seeming almost grateful for the retreat while insisting to Kurt that he was completely content.

Blaine was spending more time around him, Kurt had noticed, their casual conversations and regular coffee dates bringing him back to the early months of their relationship when they couldn't get enough of each other. He enjoyed their banter and intelligent discussions of high fashion, even while he worried about the growing disconnect between Blaine and the glee club. Blaine insisted that it didn't bother him and that he thought it was great that everyone was so enthusiastic to welcome Rory into their midst.

But Kurt could still see the way his eyes darkened slightly as his spoke and his fingertips fidgeted a little with the lid of his coffee, unable to completely pull off the half-life. Kurt knew that he was happy for Rory, but he also knew that it did bother Blaine, even if he wasn't willing to admit it. He had sacrificed Dalton Academy for McKinley, a transition that Kurt was not sure he could have mirrored if he had been in Blaine's position, and now with no Dalton to really return to, it seemed increasingly likely that Blaine would simply retreat and do his best to ignore the reality even while it ate away at him.

Which brought Kurt to the present, listening to Rory as he told him something obscure about Ireland that, out of polite courtesy, he should have been listening to but couldn't bring himself to.

"Kurt?" Rory asked at last, sensing that his audience was not nearly as attentive as he had thought. "Are you all right? You're lookin' a bit funny right now."

"I was just thinking about Finn," Kurt said, which was partially true, since he was the most infuriated with Finn's behavior.

"Oh." A pause. Then, while Kurt was shutting his locker and striding briskly towards the choir room, Rory towed after him. "Stepbrother trouble, eh? I don' know much about it meself, but I'm pretty sure that you two got on pretty well."

"We do," Kurt said. "Well. For the most part."

"Ah. I'll leave you to it, then--" Rory said, moving as though he would duck aside.

"Hold on, I need you." Kurt grabbed his sleeve, preventing his retreat, and Rory sighed slightly before trailing after him once more.

"I don' have to take sides, do I? Because I kind of like both of you as friends and it would be really awful to lose that. It's hard making friends in America."

Not so hard if you're an Irish boy interested in the football team, Kurt reflected bitterly.

He entered the choir room with Rory all but trotting beside him to keep up, Finn in mid-lecture -- Perfect, Kurt thought -- while Blaine sat in his usual corner watching Finn lecture with disinterested eyes. Rachel was the only other person present, listening to Finn and nodding eagerly along to whatever he was saying. Kurt frowned at him before clearing his throat loudly enough to get his attention. Rachel tossed him a look that said don't you dare damage your vocal chords and Kurt couldn't help the sour laugh that escaped him. With only two days to spare, of course she would be worried about that.

"We need to talk," he told Finn, his voice coming out unexpectedly low.

Finn blinked in surprise, then looked at Rachel as though he expected her to have a ready-made response already prepared. When she just looked back at him, equally flummoxed, Kurt scowled and gestured to Rory beside him, who tried to shy away under the twin gazes that locked on him.

"What's so different about him?" Kurt demanded, tugging Rory to the front so that he was no longer hiding. Blaine's expression had gone from unfocused to fully intent, surprised but curious. Finn, however, looked deeply confused as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Um, dude, he's kind of Irish, in case you haven't noticed," Finn said at last, clearly missing the point.

"Okay. So people have to be Irish to be welcomed into this club now, is that it? Then why did you let Marcus in so easily?"

"Because Marcus is Marcus," Finn said, frowning. "What about it?"

Kurt sighed heavily in exasperation. "Finn, you insufferable twit, don't you get it at all?" When Finn continued to look uncomprehending, Kurt's tenuous hold on his rage broke. "You're so prejudiced. Just because someone doesn't join the football team or transfers from a rival school or is gay means that we can't even treat him like he's part of this club?"

"What're you talking abou -- oh." Finn visibly halted as his gaze drifted to Blaine, who was watching Kurt with something akin to shock. "I still don't get it," he admitted at last. "You're part of the glee club and everything, Blaine, and I know you're in the musical--" He made a helpless gesture with his hands, bewildered. Blaine nodded and waved a hand dismissively, but Kurt wasn't about to let Finn off the hook so easily.

"You act like he's not even there," Kurt accused. "How many times have you even looked him in the eye over the past week? Once?"

"It's not like I'm trying to ignore you," Finn protested, looking at Blaine pointedly, who had his arms crossed now and was looking between the two uncertainly.

"Finn, you've always been like this," Kurt pointed out, shaking his head. Rory stepped aside slightly before decisively moving to where Rachel was sitting and plopping down beside her. "I wouldn't be as mad if you were fair," Kurt continued, stepping forward until only three feet separated him and Finn, "but you aren't."

Finn ran a hand through his hair, looking harried. "It's not like I'm trying to ignore you," he repeated. "How the hell am I supposed to know? He's your boyfriend."

"Guys, guys," Blaine interrupted, standing up and looking between the two of them with a placating expression, "I don't mind. It doesn't bother me."

Finn nodded empathetically, seeming relieved to have the support. Kurt simultaneously wanted to shake Blaine and smack Finn, but he settled for glowering at Finn instead. He could see from the way Blaine's hands were tense at his sides that he was less relaxed and calm about the whole affair as he pretended to be. Kurt plowed ahead, unrelenting.

"You're supposed to be our leader. Yet you act like he's not even there. You all do -- Mike and Artie and Puck. The only guy who even looks twice at him is Marcus, and now with Rory around. . . ." Kurt shrugged, letting the words trail off.

"Um, I'm sorry if I'm involved in this," Rory said at last, once Kurt and Finn were reduced to glaring at each other. "I don' mean to exclude anybody."

"You're not excluding anyone," Kurt said, then gave Finn a look that clearly said the same did not apply to him.

"Guys, I've got great news," Mr. Schue interrupted, beaming without looking up as he entered the choir room. "I finally figured out how to order the schedule before competition day -- what's up?" He had looked up, snapping his manilla folder shut in one hand and frowning at them.

Kurt made a disgusted noise and stalked over to the top row, sitting down in the seat beside Blaine. For a moment, it looked like neither he nor Finn would move, until at last Blaine sank slowly into his seat and Finn mirrored him from the front, Rachel casting a puzzled look at him.

"Guys?" Mr. Schue repeated, looking around at them curiously. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Schue," Kurt answered perfunctorily, while Finn looked back at him over his shoulder, half-confused, half-disbelieving.

There was a long pause, during which Kurt thought Mr. Schue might protest again before he decisively steered away, holding up the folder as the rest of the glee club filed in. "As I was saying," he continued, doing his best not to notice the mechanical politeness Kurt obliged him with by listening, "we won't have to worry about being blind-sided by the competition this time around."

Rachel perked up at the mention of the regionals' competition, and soon the conversation lost any interest for Kurt, who continued to glare at Finn whenever Mr. Schue turned his back.

Shape up, he thought silently. You want to be the leader of glee club, start acting like one.

* * *

Kurt was surprised at Blaine's placidity, but the cause became slightly clearer once they were away from glee club and sitting together at the Lima Bean, Blaine stirring his coffee absentmindedly. It was clear from his expression that he was thinking of other things, his faraway look seeming to gaze upon a separate world entirely. After the thirtieth or so revolution of his tiny straw in the coffee cup, Kurt reached out and stilled his hand. Blaine blinked at him, for a moment attempting to stir anyway, before blinking and looking up. "Is something wrong?" he asked casually, setting the straw aside and making no move to drink the coffee itself.

"Why aren't you upset about Finn?" Kurt asked, his mouth speaking without his permission.

Blaine shrugged slightly and lifted his coffee as though he would take a drink before setting it back down. For a minute, Kurt thought he wouldn't speak at all. Then, as though the words had been some sort of code that needed ciphering before registering, words burst forth.

"Finn's your stepbrother, Kurt," he said, laying his hands flat on the table as he spoke. "I don't want to usurp his position in glee club because I know how important it is to him and I know that he sees me as kind of a threat. I was already an important singer for a rival show choir, and I'm the lead role in West Side Story, and frankly lying low for a little while might not be the worst idea. You know. Stay under the radar. Keep out of trouble. Just let you guys do your thing." He shrugged. "I just don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable about me being around, and it's time that you guys took the spotlight you deserve."

"Finn has had the spotlight for the past three years," Kurt said bluntly. "He was always the one getting solos back when Mr. Schue couldn't create an original setlist. Besides, he already has his friends to watch his back. It's you I'm worried about. I see how lonely you are."

Blaine averted his gaze and took a tiny sip of coffee.

"Blaine, it's safer than ever for people like Finn to show their true colors around McKinley," Kurt went on, knowing that look in his eyes. He didn't want to overstep so he didn't want to say what was on his mind, but it was clear that he knew why the guys were still ignoring him. "I know why they're ignoring you," he said aloud, ignoring the tiny flinch Blaine gave as he set his coffee down and looked at Kurt for the first time since they'd sat down at the Lima Bean, "and it's because you're gay. They don't want their reputations put at stake, and it makes them look good to support someone like Rory because he's straight and foreign and his oddities are new and exciting. You and me, we're something of old news," he said with a wry smile. "Or at least, I am. You're new, but you're also like Jesse St. James because you came from a rival school and we're dating."

"But I'm not dating you for those reasons," Blaine protested weakly. Kurt noticed that he didn't bother say anything else, a silence that was pointed.

"I know you're not. And I think they know it on some level, too. But these sort of things sort of add fodder to the fire for them."

"So . . . what you're saying is that I should lay low," Blaine said, sounding confused that Kurt had brought up the argument in the first place if he was just agreeing with Blaine anyway.

Kurt shook his head. "No. I'm saying you can't let them do this to you. I'm not going to sit back and watch it happen, because I know what they're doing and I think you do, too."

Blaine inclined his head and said nothing.

"You just can't let Finn get away with these sort of things," Kurt said, reaching forward and grasping his wrist. Blaine kept his hand wrapped around his coffee cup, seeking the grounding presence of a physical object to keep from confronting Kurt more directly. "I can't fight this battle for you, but I'm not just going to leave you stranded, either. And, honestly, Rory likes you. He'll help you out with this, too, so you're not completely alone. We've just got to stop this now before it becomes something that lasts all year."

Silence for a long time. Kurt could feel the way Blaine's fingers tightened and relaxed underneath his grip, at last settling on a medium as they lightly held the coffee.

"I . . . thanks."

Kurt squeezed his hand again. "Just because you make bad decisions sometimes doesn't mean I'm just going to ignore things like this," Kurt said softly, not knowing why the words tumbled out of him except once they had already done so. Blaine's eyes widened slightly and Kurt just knew he had hit the nail on the head, and he winced inwardly to think that Blaine hadn't wanted to bring up his own feelings on the topic because of their previous fight. Even two weeks after the fact, they were still struggling to trust each other with certain aspects of their lives. Apparently arguments over Kurt's stepbrother still qualified as sore spots best not broached under tense circumstances.

After two weeks without Sebastian and with only the most gentlemanly behavior from Blaine, however, Kurt had come to trust that Blaine wouldn't pull any similar stunts in the near future. He had even come to think that everything was okay between them, with the exception of Blaine's mild obsession with his role in the musical.

. . . Which Kurt was beginning to realize had been a way for him to act without intruding on Kurt's life. It had also helpfully given Kurt the space that he had needed in order to clear his own head. They hadneeded some time to themselves, just living their own lives without depending on the other, and it had been refreshing to act independently.

Realizing just how much Blaine was holding back to avoid upsetting Kurt in any way (because clearly an argument over the glee guys' approval would upset Kurt because it probably had sounded petty in Blaine's mind), Kurt purposefully pried his hand off the cup and clasped it. Blaine's fingers were limp momentarily before they slid neatly into place, his sigh seeming to come from his toes.

"We can talk to Finn tonight, and be ready for Saturday's competition with clear heads," Kurt said calmly, believing every word. He could sense Blaine's belief, too, as his shoulders relaxed minutely, just visible. "Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Blaine echoed, breaking into a grin. "Can you believe it's regionals already?"

"Hardly," Kurt said truthfully. Blaine laughed.


	41. Chapter 41

". . . soy de Lima Heights Adjacent!"

"Does this happen often?" Blaine whispered, deeply concerned about Santana and Quinn as they shouted at each other.

"Usually," Kurt admitted dryly, nudging him past the girls towards where Mercedes and Marcus was standing. Even they were arguing this morning -- Mercedes kept readjusting Marcus' tie while Marcus insisted that it was fine (which, Blaine thought, it was, but he knew better than to step between the duo). To Blaine, they were almost a reprieve compared to the boiling pot of energy that seemed ready to burst between the girls. Despite the frigidity of an early November morning, the cold stupor that had descended over the landscape did not seem to have affected the New Directions at all. Brittany was complaining to Mr. Schuester because he wasn't letting her bring an obscenely large cat along for the ride with her, while Artie and Puck were snarling about something involving the wheels on his wheelchair. Finn was looking harassed while Rachel flittered around in an angry frenzy, mostly yelling at everyone and insisting that they needed to get on the bus now.

Rory walked over, a satchel slung over one shoulder and a green hat tucked over his head, ducking as a snowball flew over from where Santana and Quinn were arguing. Lauren, in the spirit of supporting the event despite her departure from the glee club, was helpfully tossing snowballs in their midst to further inspire their efforts. "This is madness," Rory told them. "How're we supposed to get them on the same bus without killing each other?"

"Fortunately, I prepared for just such an occasion," Kurt said, his voice still more amused than worried about the situation as a whole. "Hey! Ruffians!" He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly, silencing everyone. "Finn's got cookies," Kurt said, tossing him a bag full of cookies.

"Oh hell no, he doesn't," Puck said, lunging for Finn who then ducked inside the only available exit: the bus. Within seconds the New Directions had piled inside, scrambling to get a hand on the bag. Noises strongly reminiscent of a pack of wolves tearing into plastic emitted from behind the closed door as the group squabbled. Blaine noticed sympathetically that the bus driver was wearing a pair of thick ear muffs and staring ahead with a woe begotten expression, looking harried.

"Don't you think that was cruel?" Blaine pointed out, nudging Kurt lightly while Rory blinked beside them and watched the frenzy with curious eyes. He had wisely opted not to follow the cookies, even though Schuester was flailing in the midst of the group desperately trying to make sure no one lost any limbs before the competition.

"No," Kurt deadpanned, tossing him a sideways glance, "a little suffering on Finn's part is good for him. It keeps him humble."

Blaine wondered if Finn would still be whole before the brawl subsided, but within five minutes the entire bus was calm and, besides a few stinging remarks about so-and-so stealing all of the cookies, everyone seemed noticeably calmer. Hair had been tugged and necks half-wrangled and feet stomped on and ribs elbowed, but overall the fight seemed to have released the pent-up energy that might otherwise have erupted at a more inopportune moment: on stage, per se, or behind the scenes where inappropriate behavior could mean disqualification.

"All right, guys!" Schuester announced, his hair completely disorderly but his demeanor still bright and cheerful. "Ready for regionals?"

A chorus of half-hearted agreements erupted around the bus. Blaine shuffled into one of the front seats, for once grateful to be as far away from the group as possible, while Kurt slid in beside him and Rory behind them.

"I don' mean to sound rude or anythin', but you all can be kind of crazy," Rory told them.

"We know," Kurt said, his entire manner placating, and Blaine relaxed slightly. Clearly, the fiasco was not something to worry about, and if everything looked slightly less perfect appearance-wise than before, at least they had plenty of time in the green room to fix everything (they were third: Vocal Adrenaline was up first while the Warblers claimed the second slot). Rachel was already combing her hair frenetically, an effort that Blaine thought was slightly ridiculous considering that she would just be tugging new shirts over it soon enough anyway. Their outfits were at the competition itself, housed this time at a neutral school in midwestern Ohio. Since that school wouldn't be competing in the rounds and had a large enough auditorium to house a small army, the Crawford Country Day School had offered its quarters for the competition.

Blaine thought it was an amusing selection, particularly since he and the Warblers had once invited a fairly large group of girls from there to observe and provide feedback on their Animal number. It had not been the Warblers' most prestigious performance, but Blaine thought that overall it had been good for the Warblers to let loose and have a little fun. Even if Kurt's 'sexy faces' at the time were difficult to resist laughing at. Blaine knew that his soon-to-be boyfriend wouldn't have appreciated the sentiment, so he had held himself in until the end. Unfortunately, instead of laughter (which would have been bad enough in its own right), he had then gone up to Kurt and told him that he looked like he was having gas pains during his performance. It was easily one of his least eloquent moments ever, and Kurt's quips about his own expressions from then on had been biting. After two months, he relented and forgave Blaine, but Blaine was very careful from then on never to mention the performance in ear-shot of Kurt (which basically amounted to never mentioning the performance again).

Blinking back to reality as the bus lurched slightly, Blaine leaned back in his seat as the bus made good progress on the highway. There hadn't been any major blizzards yet, but the forecasters had predicted a moderate snowstorm to move in starting early that afternoon. If all went well, they would be back around three o'clock at McKinley (hopefully with a trophy to show for it). If not, Blaine knew, then it could take hours to drive through a good Ohioan storm, let alone in a McKinley issued-bus.

Already a light drift was coming down, nothing alarming or even accumulating, but Blaine grimaced at the thought of spending an extra hour or two on the bus later with the group if they lost.

But we're not going to lose, he reminded himself, just a snowball smacked into the side of his head.

"Guys," Schuester berated, waving his hands at Puck, who had somehow managed to load a bag's worth of snow onto the bus.

"Noah Puckerman, so help me Gaga--" Kurt began, rising imperiously before Blaine tugged him back down before he could get fully out of the seat. For one, with the way the bus tended to lurch instead of glide as it moved, he feared that Kurt would face-plant onto the cold, slush-riddled floor. Knowing that he wouldn't appreciate that, Blaine ignored it when Kurt scowled at him before pinching his arm once, hard, to show him that he was not pleased, folding them both as he sat back.

"Sorry, hobbit!" Puck called out from his seat at the back a moment later.

"Minus ten points, yo," Artie said, shaking his head in evident disappointment.

Blaine heard another snowball being compacted and, within seconds, launched at the back of the driver's seat.

"Bulls-eye!" Puck crowed, as it smashed against the headrest. Blaine's sympathy for the driver redoubled as the man stoically clung to the wheel and drove on.

"Puckerman, I will put you under the bus if you keep throwing snowballs," Santana snarled.

Blaine doubted that she spoke up out of sympathy for the driver: she was in the direct line of fire and had only missed the latest shot because she had ducked after seeing Blaine get hit.

Brushing the snow out of his hair and grimacing as he thought what it would look like once it dried, Blaine watched with some amusement as Puck launched another snowball -- it smacked solidly into the headrest -- before Santana proceeded to half-maul him. By the time all was said and done, the bus gave another impressive jolt and both Puck and Santana ended up on the floor with Schuester shouting at them both to behave.

It took Marcus, Finn, and Mike's combined strength to pry the two apparent, since Santana was half-strangling Puck while Puck pinned her down with sheer size. With everyone once more flustered, Blaine didn't blame Rory in the slightest for keeping his hat firmly in place. "Glad I brought this," he added, reading Blaine's mind.

Blaine nodded sagely, running a rueful hand over his own head. "At least it doesn't have any corn syrup in it," he added lightly. Kurt's expression remained thunderous as he glared ahead of him, seeming determined to ignore Blaine for having prevented him from attacking Puck. Blaine had no doubt that Kurt would


	42. Chapter 42

One of the perks of living in Lima, Ohio was a deep familiarity with sudden, intense snowstorms. It was a non-event for most residents to simply switch regular tires for snow tires and proceed on the roads as normal. Whereas their southern counterparts would have found difficulty navigating the barely visible streets, most of the Ohioan populace was not worried about the blizzard. Of course, that didn't meant that Kurt wasn't still drumming his fingers against his knee anxiously the entire ride back from Crawford Country Day. He trusted the driver Mr. Schue had picked for them -- Jim was a reliable sort, one of the few adults at McKinley that just seemed to be practical and intelligent -- but it was still a nerve-racking experience to look out all the windows and see only white. He had been jealous of the rest of the New Directions -- all apparently capable of sleeping through potentially life-threatening drives -- but at the same time completely unable to shut off his mind the same way.

Snowstorms made Kurt antsy. Although a full-time resident of Lima since birth, Kurt had never been fond of the way they swept through, knocking out power, icing roads, and piling snowbanks three feet deep around everything. In some ways, he was grateful that Jim opted to drive through and risk the bad roads rather than wait until the storm passed. From the looks of things, the storm was only strengthening, the accumulation of white on the windshield wipers piling up slowly but steadily. Kurt found himself gripping his seat hard as the grayness outside submitted to full night. Jim continued to drive at a steady pace, never increasing or decreasing, and although Kurt was reassured by the fifteen-mile-per-hour crawl, he couldn't stop switching songs on his iPod, looking for something to distract him.

He was half-tempted to wake Blaine, who had fallen asleep within minutes of their departure with his head resting on Kurt's shoulder. Rory was drowsing against Blaine's shoulder, their tight quarters making it impossible for 'personal space' to exist. The rest of the New Directions were similarly packaged: Puck, Quinn, and Mike were squashed into one seat while Brittany, Santana, and Tina crowded into another. Finn still had his own seat, as did Artie, but everyone else had partnered up for the ride. Kurt craned his head around to look at them, wincing slightly when the bus jumped over a slight bump in the road before resuming its steady forward crawl.

Knowing that Blaine was relaxed beside him helped with Kurt's unease. Blaine would never be that calm if he thought something was wrong or was about to go wrong. His relaxation was a clear indicator that he trusted Jim's navigational skills and found nothing to fear with their current arrangement. Surely, that should have reassured Kurt.

It didn't. Not fully. He still remained tense and alert as Jim drove on and on endlessly into the snowy black. There were few other cars on the road -- they encountered one every ten minutes or so, usually with its yellow lights on driving at a similarly glacial pace. Kurt entertained himself wondering how the other competitors were coping with the elements. Dalton lucked out -- they were closest to Crawford Country Day, a mere twenty-minutes out to the north. With luck, they had probably avoided the worst of the storm completely. Since most of the Warblers boarded at Dalton, Kurt had no doubts that they were all sitting safely back in their dorm rooms commiserating over the loss.

Vocal Adrenaline had the longest drive -- an hour and thirty minutes -- but they, too, had avoided the worst of the storm. They drove ahead of it, and Kurt had known from their quick departure that they were probably back at Carmel High already.

Lima, Ohio looked like Nome, Alaska by the time Jim pulled into the parking lot. The bus skipped over a speedbump and came to a loud halt on the snow-covered asphalt, waking most of the group as Kurt shifted eagerly to his feet, ready to go home. Home was the only place where he didn't mind snowstorms being around him: at least there he could barricade himself in the living room with hot chocolate and fashion and bask in the indoors while Finn shoveled out the driveway.

Blaine looked up at him in surprise, shuffling to his feet slowly, and Kurt blinked as Rory said something about gnomes before peeling his face off the window. Resisting the urge to drag him after himself, Kurt hurried out of the bus where his dad was no doubt waiting -- he had sent him a text twenty minutes ago when Jim told them that they were getting close -- trusting Blaine to follow.

The ride home was little more comforting, but Kurt felt safer with his dad driving. The car was already warm, unlike the bus, and it was calming to know that someone he trusted completely was behind the wheel. Jim was a competent driver, but Kurt trusted his dad more than a relative stranger. He kept the conversation light and continuous on the drive back, not minding that Blaine dozed off on his shoulder again or when Finn just stared mutely out the window, yawning every four seconds.

His dad pulled into the driveway to their house thirty minutes later, some of the tension draining out of Kurt's shoulder as he relaxed slightly. He was not completely pleased, however, knowing that he would still have to trudge through the foot deep accumulation separating him from the warm interior of his house.

"We're home," he told Blaine, giving him a nudge as he unbuckled his own seat belt and put a hand bracingly on the door.

A noncommittal grunt answered him, and Kurt chuckled slightly before pinching Blaine's side, eliciting a whine and a swat. "Don't," he mumbled, trying to cuddle closer unsuccessfully. For one, Kurt shifted away to reach for the door; his seat belt prevented him from moving any closer after that. Finn had already braved the icy march from the front passenger seat to the door of their house in five brisk steps, his wide footsteps visible in the six inches already laying on the ground.

"Come on, you," Kurt said, pressing the button to unbuckle Blaine's seat belt. He sagged comically against it, not bothering to move his arms to unloop it, and with a fondly exasperated sigh Kurt reached over and slid them out of the device properly. Half-dragging him out of his seat, working with his uncooperative boyfriend, Kurt frisked on his feet, eager to be back inside, while Blaine simply sagged against him, murmuring something about sleeping that Kurt didn't bother pay attention to. His dad locked the car up behind them, Kurt looping an arm around Blaine's waist as he sallied him along.

"Just keep moving," he said, while Blaine dragged his feet through the snow, forming two continuous tracks from the car to the door. Kurt had never been happier to be inside -- not only could he feel some of the pseudo-frostbite sliding off his face, he was also able to drop Blaine in the nearest armchair. The latter promptly resumed snoring as soon as he did so.

Shaking his head to himself, Kurt quickly shucked off his wintry gear and sidled upstairs, switching outfits quickly for a slightly more casual but still exquisitely warm design. He met Carole halfway down, she ushering Finn into the kitchen where leftover roast beef sat in a tray on top of the oven.

"I heard you guys won!" Carole whispered, beaming.

Kurt could tell she was speaking quieter in consideration for Blaine, but he simply smiled back and said in a normal tone, "I know! It's really incredible. We . . . well, I don't want to say we weren't expecting it, but it's really nice to be on the victors' side this time around."

Casting a briefly questioning look over her shoulder at Blaine, who didn't twitch, Carole turned back to him and playfully interrogated him through the belated dinner he shared with the three of them. Finn was already shoveling copious amounts of food into his mouth by the time Kurt picked a seat beside his dad, and although Kurt did his absolute best not to look at the massacre he still caught scarring glimpses of Finn's digestive process in motion.

Thankfully, Carole distracted him from the traumatizing sight with her boundless chatter, always ready with some fine-tuned question about what had happened or which members showed the most promise for upcoming years. Kurt was happy to oblige her with lengthy answers, and it surprised him when Finn suddenly stood up with his empty plate.

Usually Finn opted for at least four servings of any meal before calling it a day. Kurt hadn't realized that he had already had four servings during Kurt's discourse, but he noticed after a moment that it was almost ten o'clock from the clock on the wall. The unrelenting snowfall outside made it feel even later, somehow, the darkness deeper and more pervasive. Carole had put together a fire in the fireplace, adding a wintry warmth to the scene that Kurt relished. In another life, Kurt was convinced, he had been a cat, because there was nothing he loved more during the colder months of the year than curling up in a nice cozy chair in front of a fire. Whether it was to read the latest Vogue magazine, watch re-runs of Grey's Anatomy, or simply ponder deep philosophical questions about his own existence, Kurt loved fireplaces.

Blaine had already inadvertently stolen the most comfortable chair, and Kurt noticed with a slightly wrinkled nose that he had neglected to take off his winter gear at the door. With his coat and boots still in check -- and likely soaking the carpet and chair -- he snoozed on, oblivious. Sighing to himself and hoping that Carole wouldn't mind it terribly, Kurt tugged him out of the coat and managed to pry the boots off after untying them.

Setting them off to the side where they belonged, Kurt did his best to shake Blaine to semi-awareness and pulled him out of the chair. Blaine grumbled and tried to tug back but Kurt persisted, dragging him over to the couch before letting him collapse on top of it. Blaine was out before his head even touched the pillow, his snores soft but steady a moment later. Kurt shook his head and tucked the quilt hanging over the back of the couch over him, draping it first before tucking it in around the edges. (He was discreet, of course, making it look purely like he was just adjusting it for length; some gestures, he thought, were too sweet to be shared with outsiders.)

Once certain that his boyfriend was as comfortable as he would be in his present position, Kurt gathered his phone, his notebooks, a set of college applications, and a pen in hand before plopping down in the other armchair, slightly farther away than and positioned on the opposite side of the first. Carole and his dad remained in the kitchen chatting amicably for a half-hour or so before drifting back upstairs with soft 'good nights' in Kurt's direction. He waved back at them before refocusing on his folder, his feet tucked up underneath him as he cast absentminded looks at the dwindling fire.

Picking up the pen, he sketched out a brief to-do list, including hunting Nick down and figuring out why he had let Sebastian attend and making sure that he finished his NYADA (and other college) applications on time. He didn't want to be disqualified from admissions for missing any deadlines, and he knew that as the end of November rapidly approached the time to submit for certain schools was diminishing. Better, he decided, starring that particular note, to finish them as soon as possible than to postpone them towards the final dates. Nick he wanted to confer with to demand an explanation: the Warbler's decision to let Sebastian attend the regionals competition felt almost like betrayal. Nick had promised he wouldn't let Sebastian anywhere near the competition, and yet there he had been, as cocky and arrogant and worryingly dangerous as ever.

Circling that line, Kurt jotted down several other notes before turning to the college applications in question. He flipped smoothly through the sheets, eyes scanning the information for any discrepancies before decisively moving on to the next line. For the most part, he and Blaine had already filled everything out, with the exception of the essays. English had never been Kurt's strongest topic, although he didn't consider himself to be much of a math-science individual, either. He was a fashionista, not a writer, and being forced to write about himself was not a task he enjoyed. If this was a conversation he was having with another person, that might have been slightly easier, since he would have at least been able to manipulate the threads somewhat so that he could always have something to say. When given a simple topic and brusque orders to write so-and-so many words, Kurt Hummel found himself at an odd loss.

Some of the topics were easier than others -- he wrote an exceptional essay on one that simply said 'topic of your choice' -- but overall he still hadn't found the inspiration or time to write them. In the quiet solitude of the room, however, interspersed with the occasional crackle from the dying fire and the barely audible snore from Blaine, Kurt felt a deep sense of calm spread about him. They had won the regionals competition and were going to New York. Again. The thought made his lips curl and the desire to laugh nearly uncontrollable. Just last year he would have said that his number one goal in high school was to make it to New York and experience some of the Big Apple. Now, however, things were different. He wasn't simply considering New York through the wistful eyes of an aspiring junior. He was looking at it as a serious contender for a place he would spend the rest of his life in, making art in whatever forms he chose.

I just wanna live here. I wanna live here and make art. Make art and help people.

Wincing slightly at the echo of Blaine's drunken words, Kurt looked down at the papers in his lap and focused his attention on them. Perhaps if he just let his thoughts flow uninterrupted, then he would find some gem that would prove the focus for his essay. Pulling out his notebook and turning to a page that wasn't covered in French doodles, Kurt began to write, hesitantly at first but more confidently as the time went on. He found himself turning for a new page once, twice, three times before he realized that he must have vastly exceeded the five hundred word count maximum. Turning back to the front and carefully reading through what he had written, Kurt tweaked words here and there with brisk strikes of his pen. Blaine thought it was amusing that he always wrote in pen, but that was simply the way Kurt was. If he needed to correct something, better to simply cross it out and move on rather than bother with messy eraser shreds.

Once he reached the end of his tentative essay, Kurt dog-earred the page and turned to the next prompt. It took him slightly longer to reach a similar length -- he wrestled with the conclusion for nearly an hour before managing to find the right flow -- but once he read it over again he found little that he wanted to correct.

Satisfied with the two essays and feeling the first hints of fatigue tugging at him, Kurt snapped his notebook shut smartly and tucked it under his arm, casting one last look at the fire -- now reduced to barely visible embers -- before walking towards the staircase. He smiled at Blaine in passing, stifling a yawn as he marched upstairs, turning off lights as he went. It was now almost midnight, and while normally he would have felt inclined to follow his strict regime of 'early to bed, early to rise,' that night he knew that the success from actually winning the regionals competition made it nearly impossible to slow his mind down. The additional worry of the bus ride home -- Kurt wasn't kidding when he told Blaine he thought five years of his life had been subtracted thanks to the perilous journey -- had only encouraged Kurt's over-active conscience to demand motion rather than sleep.

Now content that he would be able to drop off, Kurt exchanged his casual wear for proper pajamas and went through his skin sloughing regimen with slightly less rigor than usual. Although still beaming with success, he was exhausted, and now that he was alone and dark and colder away from the fireplace, fatigue made him want to set down all his moisturizers and simply drop off into sleep.

Finishing with a triumphant -- if weary -- smile, Kurt crawled into bed and was asleep in seconds.

* * *

"Nick, what were you thinking?" Kurt demanded.

He had his phone propped against his ear as he watched Finn shoveling the driveway, his pen tapping against his knee as he considered all of the things he wanted to do to the younger Warbler. Hanging him by his toes in an abandoned classroom for a few hours sounded like delightful recompense for allowing a member he had promised would not be present at any events to participate in a major competition. Kurt had been wounded by the revelation at first -- he had trusted Nick to keep Sebastian away, a decision he saw had clearly not been upheld -- but he had quickly switched from hurt to shocked and angry and concerned. Sebastian had provided him one limit to work with, but the remainder of his potential was unknown. Kurt put nothing past him: aside from explicit criminal activity, he seemed willing to do just about anything to make his and Blaine's lives complicated and stressful.

"Hey, Kurt," a voice said sheepishly on the other end of the line, followed by a great deal of shuffling paper. "I'm sorry for not calling last night. We had a bit of a situation over here and I just got out of it."

"Why did you let Sebastian come to regionals?" Kurt asked bluntly. He could hear the fatigue in Nick's voice, validating his argument that he had been busy the previous evening when Kurt had tried to call him, but at the same time he knew that that could also have been a result of stress from avoidance of the issue. Kurt had to force him to face it, because Nick acted as head Warbler in Trume's continued absence. He needed Nick to understand how important this was, because Nick was one of the few people that might actually support Kurt from within the Warblers' forces wholeheartedly. The rest were all questionable. Some would find their causes better endowed on Sebastian's end, while the rest would be unwilling to deny him because of his so-called authority. Kurt ached to set him in his place -- if only he was still a Warbler and could contribute more directly to the cause -- but he knew that his allies would ultimately determine how this scheme played out. He could stand alone and speak strong, but he needed Nick's and Jeff's support if he wanted to keep Sebastian from rising back to his former position.

"We didn't want to," Nick said after a long pause that sounded like he had been consulting Jeff silently, trying to figure out where to begin. Kurt leaned back against his chair and watched as Finn wrestled with a particularly hard chunk of ice, stabbing the shovel ruthlessly against the section until it gave way. "Sebastian pulled a wild card: he dug up the rulebook. Since I'm not officially the head Warbler, we were missing one of the 'necessary parties' to override the lack of physical evidence incriminating him. He consulted with the dean and, courtesy of an exemplary academic record and complete lack of demerits, we were overruled. Jeff and I protested but the dean's word stands."

Kurt scowled. "So you're saying that the only way we can kick Sebastian out of the Warblers -- besides a positive vote from Trume -- is to show them a police record?"

"Pretty much."

Biting back a curse, watching as Finn cursed colorfully when a heavy chunk of ice broke and landed on his foot, Kurt shifted in his chair, deeply irritated. "You have got to be kidding me," he said at last. "How is it this hard to expel someone from a glee club?"

"The Warblers have an exceptional reputation," Nick said, the shrug visible in his voice. "Being a Warbler is an important honor. It's harder to kick people out because it's so hard to get in in the first place."

Rubbing his forehead, Kurt asked, "Doesn't the zero-tolerance policy come into this at all?"

"Kurt, none of us know about what's going on between the three of you besides what you've told me, but if there's something that falls under direct harassment, let me know. As it stands, I have next to nothing to support the argument here because I wasn't there and Sebastian has firsthand knowledge to argue whatever I say. I tried to emphasize to the dean that Sebastian spread personal information about Blaine and another student without your permission, but it's one of those he-said-she-said arguments. We couldn't prove it."

Kurt brightened. "But I can."

Nick sounded puzzled but pleased on the other end of the line as he asked, "How?"

"Jacob Ben Israel. Sebastian bribed him to publish the story about the Sadie Hawkins dance. It's how he operates."

"If you could credibly prove that Sebastian was responsible for that, then we would definitely have a better chance of overriding him."

Tapping his fingers against his knee, Kurt hummed. "I think I can," he said at last. Maybe it was finally time to let Santana stuff the gossip-monger up a pipe. That might make him more willing to talk. Either way, Kurt was determined that he would get Jacob Ben Israel to admit the source of his information and Sebastian would be thrown out of the Warblers. Permanently. Kurt had wanted him on probation to subdue his power, but clearly Sebastian was capable of overruling that issue and retaining his position. The job had to be thorough or it was pointless.

Watching Finn heave snow into an ever-growing pile as he thought, Kurt nodded to himself as he said, "I'll talk to him. Don't think this means you're off the hook," he added sternly to Nick. "You should have at least given me some warning about it."

"Sorry. It was crazy over here. I was treading water all day just to keep Sebastian away from you guys."

"You didn't succeed at that, either," Kurt pointed out bitingly.

Nick sounded genuinely surprised, a second voice finally making its presence known in the background -- and yes, it was Jeff's. Nick answered. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly. "He was with us the whole time."

"Not at lunch."

Evidently confused, Nick sighed into the receiver. "I'm really sorry, Kurt. I had no idea he had come over to you guys -- I must have been picking up my lunch at the time. Jeff says he didn't see him, either, or we would have intervened."

Kurt rolled his eyes slightly at the thought of those two stopping Sebastian doing anything. Even if they clung to a leg each and refused to move, Kurt was fairly convinced Sebastian could shake them off and keep walking without any change in expression. "One of the Warblers has to have seen that," he said at last. "Why didn't any of them tell you?"

Silence. It was an uncomfortable pause, as though neither Nick nor Jeff wanted to admit what they both knew or were thinking. At last, Nick cleared his throat and said, "Why do you think we had such a situation last night that I couldn't talk to you? They're unhappy, Kurt. We don't have a unified leadership, and fresh off the loss at regionals, everyone's nerves are pretty much shot. The upperclassmen have basically formed a 'guard' around Sebastian because they're sick of hearing all this 'dissension,' and Jeff and I just can't seem to get anyone to oppose them. Between Trume, Sebastian, and a couple other seniors, they basically run the Warblers on a day-to-day basis."

"So you're, what, a paperweight now? Come on, Nick, you were a Warbler for four years. You know how this works; you dealt with Wes and David and they were ten times as stubborn-headed as any of the people I've seen so far."

"Some of these guys are only showing their true colors now," Nick pointed out. "For the most part, they seemed to dislike Sebastian before, but now they're willing to listen to him because he's the only one that has any authority around here. If Sebastian wants something done, however legally or illegally it happens, that thing gets done. He could get away with murder at this point. Hell, he might have already gotten away with it."

"I doubt that," Kurt quipped, wanting Nick to focus. He couldn't start thinking of Sebastian as this unstoppable leader or else he would become one. The hold Kurt held on the Warblers was precarious at best. He had thought he would have the support of the older Warblers, who had to see what Sebastian was doing, but apparently they were doing exactly what any good Warbler should do: put the team before everything else. Personal rivalries and 'petty' arguments fell short of the necessity of making sure the Warblers functioned well as a group. For whatever reason, Sebastian had become the leading force in that small group, and Kurt feared that once the younger ones gave in, the Warblers would disintegrate into a dictatorship.

"The underclassmen still seem uneasy about Sebastian," Nick said as though reading his thoughts. "They're not quite sure whether we're telling the truth or he is, but the way he makes it sound, his way is the best way. If I didn't know any better I would say he's the same Sebastian we've had since he first signed up, but after the McKinley-visit-incident I'm surprised anyone approves him. Blaine's visit really caused some sparks to stir. Unfortunately, it looks like Sebastian's using those to kindle his own fire, since there's so much hostility around here. One of the only things keeping the younger Warblers from swearing over to Sebastian is Parlezvous."

"The bird?" Kurt asked blankly. He remembered talking with Blaine about it and agreeing with him, even picking out a name for the canary, but it surprised him to hear that it was having any notable impact.

"Mmhm. They like her. She's kind of like a constant they can look forward to when everything else is disjointed. I bring her to meetings every week--" Kurt winced at the thought of the poor canary sitting through those, "--and it just seems to help. She's a legacy. People like having precedents to follow. I'm not letting Sebastian anywhere near her," he added. Kurt was inwardly relieved; he couldn't imagine what sort of petty vengeance Sebastian might reap on the bird just to get under Blaine's skin. Maybe killing people crossed a certain line but birds were an exception. Or he might simply let her loose, which would just as surely kill her in mid-November in Ohio.

"Make sure you keep Trume away from her, too," Kurt said sternly. He knew those two were conspiring together, but with Trume's absence it was difficult to prove just how involved or not involved he was in the affair. "I don't trust him, either."

"She's with one of the freshman -- Peter -- right now, but I'll keep that in mind. He's still sick, though; apparently his 'flu' was actually meningitis. So we don't expect him to be back for at least a couple more weeks."

Kurt winced at the thought. Trume wasn't his worst enemy, and although Kurt disliked him on principle for associating with Sebastian, meningitis was serious. And potentially deadly. "I hope he's okay," was all he said.

"Yeah. Same. I mean, I don't really like him much -- he's pretty quiet, and I just don't know Trume at all -- but that doesn't mean I want him to die or anything. Apparently Sebastian found him in his dorm room the one day and convinced him to go to the hospital. Good thing he did; the doctors said he probably saved his life."

Kurt took in a deep, silent breath to quell the urge to remind Nick that Sebastian was still the same bastard that had stalked him and Blaine for weeks now, stolen Blaine's phone (twice), outed Karofsky (to whom, Kurt was waiting to see, although he knew that at least some people around McKinley had noticed the sudden change, jocks included), forced Jacob Ben Israel to reprise the articles about the Sadie Hawkins dance back at Blaine's old school, and nearly assaulted his drunk boyfriend (before settling for kidnapping him temporarily, which wasn't exactly saint-like, either). Overall, Sebastian had enough major incidences to disqualify him from Kurt's 'good books' for life, but the minor stuff was just as irritating. The way he would casually refer to Blaine with pet names, the possessive hand he had put on Blaine's knee at the Lima Bean, the way he walked. Everything about him was confident and arrogant, a combination that Kurt found grating to say the least. So to hear Nick talk about him as a life-saver did nothing for Kurt's overall opinion of him.

If anything, his mood worsened with the news. Now it was them against Sebastian, with no outside resources to draw upon unless Sebastian failed (badly) to cover his tracks.

"Kurt? You still there?"

"I'm still here," Kurt assured, peering out the window as Finn picked himself up out of a snowbank and brushed snow brusquely off his shoulders and back. Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation, Kurt tapped his pen against his knee as he considered his next question. At last, he asked, "So what are you planning to do now?"

He was rewarded with a dry laugh. "Honestly? Just keep everything from imploding. In a way, I'm glad we didn't win regionals -- it just would have meant even more chaos, and God help us all if Sebastian came to New York with us -- but at the same time it does make everyone that much more upset and unhappy."

"I thought the Warblers had other performances to look forward to," Kurt pointed out, recalling the previous year when Blaine and the rest of the Warblers had simply shrugged off the loss and moved on to planning other events. They had handled the loss with dignity -- there were no meltdowns or fights or any of the finger-pointing that would have been around if it was the New Directions facing defeat again -- but it surprised Kurt to hear that the same was not true of this group. Blaine really did make the Warblers better, he mused, watching as Finn slipped impressively on an ice patch and landed back-first in a snow drift once more. A flurry of snow rose up from the crater he indented, Kurt stifling a laugh valiantly as he looked at the fireplace to calm himself instead.

"Not this year. Apparently things are booked pretty solid all around, so we're just waiting on an on-call basis for any gigs. That's part of the reason some of the older Warblers are so upset: they know that it's their last or second-to-last year and here we are without anything to do."

Humming thoughtfully, Kurt watched Finn pick himself up and dust the snow off once more before replying. "So how are you two holding out? And before you ask, yes, I know Jeff's there."

"Hi, Kurt," Jeff acknowledged, almost sheepishly, before Nick took over again.

"Yes, he's here. And besides the imminent threat of an uprising, we're good. I mean, we're kind of bummed that we're not going to nationals, but at the same time we had a great run with Blaine for two years and that's definitely better than getting a trophy with Sebastian."

Kurt felt a momentary stab of guilt as he heard the longing in Nick's voice -- it was clear from his tone that he missed Blaine, especially with Sebastian's presence tainting the group's name -- but he tucked it away. He knew that Blaine had chosen McKinley willingly, and if Dalton Academy had been the perfect place for him, the new Warbler group was anything but. Blaine might have been able to keep the rest of the Warblers happy with his leadership, but Sebastian would have been a constant abrasion, forcing Blaine to choose between the unity of the group and his own comfort. Kurt had no doubts that Blaine would have chosen the group over anything, even if it meant compromising with Sebastian and -- it made Kurt sick to even think about it -- possibly dating him just so Sebastian wouldn't raise hell every day.

Because Sebastian would and could, and that was all that mattered right now. He would keep it up all year if he had to unless Kurt could somehow knock him off his high horse. Unfortunately, his metaphorical horse was made of sterner stuff that Kurt had predicted, and Sebastian was perched too solidly in his current position of power to be swayed with anything less than a direct, blunt attack.

"Kurt?"

"Still here," Kurt assured. It was still snowing steadily out, so he nearly missed it when Finn flopped down a third time, his feet once more slipping out underneath him. Kurt couldn't blame him -- last night the snow had been thick, the next morning it was downright slick -- but he couldn't suppress a slight chuckle as he watched his stepbrother climb back to his feet and shake himself off like a dog. "Hey, where is Sebastian, anyway?"

"No clue. I haven't seen him since the end of the competition. He said something about 'visiting Trume' but my guess is that's BS."

"Nick, you need to keep better track of him," Kurt said sternly. "He's not just annoying, he's dangerous."

"Jeff's off to go find him right now," Nick assured as a chair scraped backwards. "We're keeping an eye on him, but there's only so much we can do."

"Make this your priority," Kurt insisted. "I'm serious, Nick. This isn't just some nuisance you can push aside. He's a threat, and -- oh, great, I've gotta go. Talk to you later."

"Yeah. Talk to you soon, Kurt. Good luck."

"Same." Kurt ended the call and watched closely where his stepbrother was lying in the snowbank. Apparently he hadn't bothered get up this time, and for a moment Kurt had the horrible feeling that he had knocked himself out, before he finally stirred and dragged himself upright. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurt turned away -- before catching a glimpse of an unfamiliar car.

Kurt was on his feet in seconds, rushing to the door and nearly forgetting to put on his boots and coat before he was outside. His hackles rose as he saw that Sebastian had already stepped out of the car, Finn pausing as he gathered up another shovel's worth of snow. Kurt strode forward carefully, picking his way around the worst patches of ice while Sebastian stepped forward, smoothly extending a hand to Finn as he said, "Hi. I'm Sebastian. Nice to meet you."

"Err, Finn," Finn answered eloquently, and Kurt might have laughed under any other circumstances if his nerves weren't about to burst under his skin from tension. He could all too easily imagine Sebastian using the hand to lever Finn around and stab him in the back, or simply stab him in the front, or pull his feet out from under him so his head cracked on the cleared concrete instead of the snowbank. Sometimes having endured Sue Sylvester's Cheerio Training Regime was not always a good thing, since it made Kurt hyper-aware of just how much power Sebastian held in that one moment. Sebastian released Finn's hand quickly, however, just a normal hand-shake by all appearances, before digging out something small and horizontal from his pocket smoothly. "Your friend dropped this at the competition," he said, smirking at Kurt while Finn frowned and accepted the object.

"Uh. Thanks."

"No problem. Nice to see you again, Kurt," he added, nodding in Kurt's direction.

"Get out of here," Kurt warned, his voice coming out in the low register that made Finn back up slightly from Sebastian and tighten his grip slightly on the shovel, sensing danger.

Sebastian smiled and held up his hands in a mock-peaceful gesture. "Nice place you've got here," he added conversationally.

"Get. The hell. Off of our driveway."

Letting his hands fall smoothly to his sides, Sebastian regarded him in silence for an interminably long second before turning on his heel and striding back to his car. He was out of the driveway and nearly out of sight before Kurt released a ragged breath, feeling like he had just been plunged into icy water as he shivered.

"Dude, what the hell? Wasn't that the guy Blaine put a knife to at the competition?" Finn asked. Seeing that Kurt wouldn't move, trembling with a mixture of cold and rage, Finn put an arm around his shoulders and shepherded him back inside. "Talk to me. I'm serious. What the hell is going on?"

Kurt didn't respond, simply reached over and took Blaine's phone from Finn's clenched fist before he accidentally crushed it.

* * *

The rest of the morning was tense as Kurt explained what exactly Sebastian was in as few words as possible. Blaine joined them at the kitchen table after twenty minutes or so, yawning and evidently surprised at how heated the argument was, his eyebrows raised and his glance at Kurt questioning, before he sank down into a chair next to Finn and listened as Kurt rambled on.

Kurt finished to silence. Carole and his dad were out working on some campaign business or another, which meant that it was just him, Blaine, and Finn at the house to contend with. Blaine's expression had quickly switched from surprised to grave as he picked up on what they were talking about, and he shifted slightly when Finn fixed his gaze from Kurt to him, seeking further explanation.

At last, he asked simply, "Why didn't you tell me before? I would have knocked him on the driveway out if I knew."

"Sebastian was here?" Blaine asked, his expression switching from intent to alert, borderline alarmed.

Kurt wordlessly handed his phone over to him. He saw Blaine's fingers clench around it and wondered if he would be the one to accidentally crush it in his grip, despite the size difference between his hands and Finn's. Looking at the two of them sitting side by side, the height difference was less prominent (Finn had horrible posture), but the overall size difference seemed more obvious than ever. Sebastian could have put Finn on the concrete without breaking a sweat; it was almost comically easy to imagine him doing the same to Blaine.

Blaine wasn't fragile, but he was small, and it alarmed Kurt to realize that Sebastian had somehow pilfered his phone before the end of the competition even after Blaine had threatened him with a knife. (Which Kurt himself had been in shock about, stunned that Blaine, who was always more passive when it came to violence actually threatening Sebastian like that.)

You don't know that it was after, his conscience reassured. Maybe he did it before that, and then he just didn't want to return the phone.

The thought was little more comforting, because one way or another Sebastian had made yet another move. Whether he was trying to divide and conquer them, Kurt didn't know, but he was successfully racketing Kurt's stress levels up to finals'-week-at-Dalton intensity.

How far will he go? he wondered. Where does he draw the line?

Kurt didn't know. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, either, because if a knife pressed against his stomach with intent didn't alarm him, Kurt cringed inwardly at the thought of what he was capable of.

Maybe not sexual assault, but physical assault?

To that, Kurt had no answer.


	43. Chapter 43

"I still can't believe that I have to kiss Rachel Berry tomorrow," Blaine said, wrinkling his nose. "Gross."

"Well, at least you still have your priorities in place," Kurt said, rolling his eyes as he flipped through the latest Patti LuPone book. He had been looking through it for the past twenty minutes without actually reading any of it, mostly watching his boyfriend pace around the basement in a frenzy of activity, occasionally picking up a small item -- a rolled up tie, a pair of socks, even a deck of cards -- and fiddling with it absentmindedly.

Kurt thought his most amusing creation thus far was an origami crane made out of a scrap piece of paper lying on the floor. Where Blaine Anderson had learned to create that, Kurt needed to find out, if only for the pleasure of teasing him about it later on. The crane was currently sitting on the coffee table beside him as he flipped through his book, oddly delicate. Tempted as he was to see if it would fly if propelled by the big fan across the floor that his dad had never gotten around to removing, Kurt restrained himself under threat of personal indignity. Which, while acceptable in mild quantities when he was alone, was definitely Not On in front of his boyfriend.

"Remind me why I ever tried out for this play?" Blaine asked, now holding a pencil and rolling it between his fingers with surprising rapidity.

Kurt rolled his eyes and flipped the page of his book with exceeding slowness, noticing amusedly that Blaine didn't even glance twice at it, simply staring at him with his usual imploring puppy-dog look that was far too convincing for Kurt's sanity. He needed to be able to resist Blaine, but whether voluntarily or involuntarily used (and Kurt found that it was surprisingly involuntary for the most part), Blaine's trademark pleading expression was almost irresistible. Of course, there were certain exceptions to it: Kurt had some facts he refused to change his mind about, regardless of how much his boyfriend said otherwise.

First and foremost: his morning and nightly skin care rituals were mandatory. Sometimes, Kurt admitted, he would postpone them in order to accommodate special circumstances. (Translation: if they fell asleep together, or rather, if Kurt fell asleep and Blaine, being an unhelpful boyfriend, didn't bother wake him up, he would wait until the next morning to do them.)

Second: Lady Gaga was the greatest cultural icon of their era and no, Katy Perry would never supersede her.

And third: Blaine was obsessed with climbing on furniture.

Those three facts Kurt held in the supreme confidence that they would never change, but just about everything else they debated regularly. Most topics were mundane but, being Kurt and Blaine, they also discussed things like famous movies and actors and actresses from eras that most modern teenagers had never even heard of, let alone could argue the merits and depravities of. Kurt especially liked arguing the finer points of fashion with Blaine, since he was one of the few people Kurt knew that could actually keep up with such mentally rigorous conversations (not to mention he was the only other boy that Kurt knew that could actually do so).

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, and yes, that was the puppy-dog look and Kurt dragged his gaze back to his book to keep up his feigned reading and thus divert some of its power. "Kurt," Blaine repeated, soundly half-fond, half-exasperated. "Are you even listening to me?"

"No," Kurt said promptly, flicking a look at him that said what do you think? before returning to his 'reading.'

Blaine rolled his eyes and, before Kurt was aware he was moving, snatched the book out of his hands. "Hey!" Kurt yelped, indignant, before shrieking as Blaine tried to tickle his ribs. "You absolute mongrel."

"And now you listen to me," Blaine said triumphantly, wedging into the empty space between Kurt and the couch as he looked over the pages Kurt was on thoughtfully. "Kurt, you do realize that most people read books sitting this way, right?" he added, turning it right-side-up.

Kurt rolled his eyes, snatched his book back before whacking Blaine in the shoulder with it, and cooed, "And it only took you thirty-eight minutes to notice."

Blaine frowned, looked down at his watch, blinked, then returned his gaze to Kurt's with a sheepish smile. "Oh," he said.

"Yes," Kurt said, rolling his eyes at the monosyllabic conversation. "Your exquisite lack of peripheral awareness is quite astounding."

Blaine picked up the paper crane sitting on the table and blinked at it, turning it over with curious fingers as though he hadn't just made it eight minutes ago. "Huh," he said at last, setting it back down.

"Why 'huh'?" Kurt asked.

"I could never do that when Sadie was trying to teach me," he said simply. Kurt lifted his eyebrows and Blaine continued obligingly. "Her parents sent her to summer camp between seventh and eighth grade and she learned how to make a bunch of origami things." He gestured at the crane for reference, adding, "Once she got home, she made it her life's mission to teach me, then a clumsy fourteen-year-old with no taste for delicate paper crafting whatsoever, how to make a paper crane."

"Because that's completely heterosexual," Kurt said daintily, smiling teasingly up at him.

Blaine huffed slightly, nudging him in a mock-patronizing way. "I didn't make them at school," he replied, rolling his eyes. "I can just imagine how well that that would have gone over." He paused, looking thoughtfully aside. Kurt wondered if he was visualizing himself in school making his little paper cranes, then had to stifle a laugh at the thought. "We just worked on it at her house," he said at last. "She used to insist that I keep trying while she worked on cheerleading stuff, but I never got the hang of it. I mean, I came close, but they always just flopped." He flicked the crane's wing as though expecting it, too, to flop, but it stayed steady and he smiled a little. "She'd be thrilled. Her life's goal is complete."

Laughing as he picked at the crane's wing, Kurt asked, "So did she know you were gay then? Or was this just one of those bonding experiences that comes with having female friends?"

"Bonding experiences," Blaine said dryly. "I didn't come out to her until a few months before my freshman year. We stopped speaking for a while -- she thought I had lead her on, since I was apparently her 'boyfriend' at that point -- but we made up and were close up until the end of my sophomore year." He shrugged slightly, leaving the unspoken awareness of the Sadie Hawkins' dance hanging.

Kurt opened his mouth, closed it, then looked pensively at the crane. At last he asked, "How did you handle that?"

"Handle what?"

"The fallout."

"Of our friendship?" Kurt nodded. Blaine shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I mean, I was upset that she wasn't speaking to me -- we'd never not been on speaking terms -- especially knowing the reason why. I was worried that she'd spread the word around and it would get out that Blaine Anderson was gay before I even reached high school. That was the worst part of it: knowing she had that power and not knowing what she would do with it. It made me kind of angry with her for a while even after we made up: she never told me whether or not she had told anyone else until it became overwhelmingly clear that no one else knew I was gay."

"How so?" Kurt asked, accidentally unfolding one of the crane's wings. He managed to tuck it back in its proper position without difficulty, retracting his hand as he looked up from where he was lying on his stomach on the couch next to Blaine to see his reaction. Blaine's face was still open and friendly but there was a hint of a dark shadow on it, a past that Kurt would never experience firsthand. Blaine had been an intimate part of his past issues with Karofsky, the supporting element that had helped him retain his sanity when everything seemed to be crumbling around him. Kurt had not been able to reciprocate, since Blaine had long since gotten over the bullying phase of his high school life, only to return to it anew at McKinley.

At least no one at McKinley beat the living crap out of him, Kurt thought, wincing inwardly at the thought. He had never pressed Blaine for further details -- it felt wrong, somehow, morbid and better left undisturbed -- yet left to his own imagination his thoughts made his stomach churn as he tried to imagine what that night must have been like for him. Terrifying probably didn't even come close to it. Knowing that there had been another person with him did nothing to comfort Kurt. It just meant that two people had suffered for something that wasn't even a crime, and that two people would carry the scars forever.

Kurt didn't know how many scars Blaine had from it, but he knew that there was at least one web along his left side around his ribs. He had accidentally come across the distortion -- just resting his fingers under Blaine's shirt companionably, about to retreat when his hand had frozen at the mark. It had only taken a few seconds for the realization to dawn on him and he quickly retreated from the area, not wanting to wake the then-sleeping Blaine. Blaine hadn't woken, so Kurt honestly had no idea if he knew that Kurt knew that he had that reminder of his past. It had horrified Kurt at first, having tangible proof that the Sadie Hawkins incident had not only occurred but scarred him, but then he had come to accept that Blaine was stronger than it, for he survived.

Blaine remained lost in some reverie before finally returning to the present, blinking at the crane as though wondering how he had lost track of time. "They just . . . implied that it would be in my best interests to find a cheerleader -- or any hot girl -- and have sex with her as soon as possible. I kind of doubt that they would have given the same advice if they thought I was more interested in boys."

"So Sadie was the first person you came out to," Kurt surmised.

"No. James was."

"Ah."

"He found out on his own, to an extent. . . ." Blaine shrugged uncomfortably and for one curious moment Kurt wondered if he had had an experience similar to his infatuation with Finn. The thought of wanting to date Finn still made Kurt blush; he couldn't help it. Finn was his stepbrother now, and the contrast between then and now was incredible. Then he had been somewhat shy and introverted and fearful of people ever finding out that he was gay. Now he loved who he was and embraced it and had a boyfriend to show for it.

Laying a supportive hand against Blaine's knee, Kurt waited patiently for him to go on, both curious and sympathetic. "I guess he caught me eyeing a few guys -- I was still trying to figure out if I was really gay or not at the time -- and he asked me while we were walking back from a football game if I was gay. I didn't mean to say it but it just--" He made a helpless gesture that Kurt understood well. Once upon a time Mercedes had been prodding him for an explanation about his dating interest in Rachel and, out of exasperation and hurt and fear that he would lose Mercedes' friendship if he said nothing, he had told her the truth. At least she had been a girl; he couldn't imagine if it had been Finn or Artie or Mike who he needed to persuade in order to keep their friendship.

"James actually took it pretty well," Blaine said, interrupting Kurt's thoughts. "He said that he was fine with it and wouldn't tell anyone else, but there were a couple of times early on that we had problems because I did something or he did something and we just sort of set each other off. My parents had no idea why we were so edgy around each other, but we got over it and they didn't bother pursuing it." He shrugging, plucking at his paper crane absently now, not looking at Kurt.

"So when did your parents find out?" Kurt asked reflexively. He opened his mouth to say that Blaine didn't have to answer that, that really he had already pushed the boundaries of offering personal information, but Blaine just smiled wryly and spoke.

"I told them a few weeks before the Sadie Hawkins dance about Luke. I didn't tell them I was going to the dance with him," he added, frowning slightly. "I just implied that I was . . . interested . . . in him. My mom figured it out first -- she was the most sympathetic -- while Brian just . . . continued. He wasn't really upset about it or anything, but he also didn't say much, either. The most we ever actually sat down and talked about it was in the hospital that night." He let out a bitter chuckle that held a world of regret before saying, "I don't even remember half of that conversation."

They were silent together, Kurt now stroking soothing patterns on Blaine's knee while Blaine continued to pick purposefully at his crane. At last, he spoke again, his voice subdued but still steady, still conversational and almost warm.

"I never went back to Hawthorne after that night," he said simply. "Brian handled all of the paperwork and talked with all of the necessary people to make my transfer to Dalton complete. Once I was able to attend school again, I went straight to Dalton and never looked back." He paused, then smiled and added, "And then two years later, Wes told me a certain spy had infiltrated our borders and was wandering the grounds hopelessly lost. . . ."

"Oh shush," Kurt huffed, swatting his arm halfheartedly while Blaine chuckled. "I knew exactly where I was going."

"Mmm. Right." Smiling fondly down at Kurt, Blaine added, "I don't think you were fooling anyone that day, but if it's any consolation, it did take Jeff and Nick four hours to realize that you were a spy."

"And those are the same people we're trusting to keep track of Sebastian?" Kurt groaned.

"They're better now," Blaine defended, his tone losing some of its jocularity at the mention of Sebastian, "but point taken. We'll keep an eye on it."

"Hmm," was all Kurt said.

Blaine finally managed to tug a piece of the paper crane that made the paper collapse back into a smooth sheet, using his knee to smooth it out a little more before setting the scrap paper back on the table.

"I liked the crane," Kurt protested lightly, poking his side.

"Ah, but you also said it's 'completely heterosexual' and I am most definitely not," he said, smirking as he leaned down and pressed an exaggerated kiss to Kurt's cheek with a loud mwah!

"You're such a goofball," Kurt said, rolling his eyes.

"But it brings me back to my original point," Blaine added, his eyes brightening before his smile dropped and his brows furrowed again. "I have to kiss Rachel Berry tomorrow." Then, eloquently: "Ugh."

"I'm sure she's not that terrible," Kurt answered dryly. "You certainly didn't think so after her party."

"I was drunk," Blaine protested. "You can't honestly take my judgments seriously when I'm that out of it."

Kurt raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Can't I? Maybe if you didn't get drunk in the first place. . . ." He trailed off.

Blaine grimaced and looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I'm so sorry, Kurt. I don't even know why I did it the first time -- I guess I just . . . didn't want to be the preppy school boy too high-and-mighty to have fun with everyone else." He shrugged, looking helpless, then added, "The second time I have no excuse for, and I'm just really, really sorry, Kurt. I never meant--" He shook his head, unable to find words.

Kurt sighed slightly and rested his hand flat against Blaine's knee. "Never do it again," he said sternly.

"Promise," Blaine answered eagerly. Then, groaning, he put his head in his hands. "I still have to kiss Rachel Berry tomorrow. That's like kissing my sister."

"You have a sister?"

"That's like kissing my hypothetical sister," Blaine amended. "Ugh. Great. Now I'm going to be imagining kissing my sister while kissing Rachel Berry and . . . ugh!"

"I'm glad to see that you're still resoundingly gay," Kurt said, smirking slightly in amusement as he looked up at his boyfriend. "It's just one crummy little kiss."

"Yes, but she's a girl," Blaine said as though there need be no further explanation of the injustice of this measure.

"Yep, you're definitely gay," Kurt deemed in a dry voice, sitting up and nudging Blaine's shoulder. "You'll survive. I promise. No guarantees for your sanity, but. . . ."

He laughed as Blaine groaned and rested his head against Kurt's shoulder, voice muffled by his t-shirt as he said, "Can't you just be my understudy and do it for me?"

"What, and let you have all the fun in the spotlight for the rest of the night? Absolutely not. Besides, Officer Krupke's grown on me."

"Bull crap," Blaine deadpanned.

"How would you know?"

"He's a minor character."

"'There are no small roles,'" Kurt quoted dryly.

Blaine huffed. "That's Rachel's favorite quote."

"See, you're practically made for her," Kurt cooed. "You even know her favorite quote. Plus, you're both hobbit-sized."

"I am not a hobbit."

"Hate to break the news to you, but shorter than Nick. And he's practically a midget. So yes, you are a hobbit."

"You're not even that much taller than me," Blaine grumbled.

"Mmhm, whatever makes you feel better."

* * *

Rehearsing for West Side Story meant submersing himself in the role of Tony. Blaine did not just look on Tony's life from a bystander's perspective: he became Tony. He adopted his friends and mannerisms and habits and achievements and dreams the moment he stepped onto the stage, lost all of the former awareness and attachments he had and focused solely on becoming the gang co-leader of the Jets. He had already established in his mind his comfort zone with Tony, a deep knowledge of his habits and skills, his dreams and aspirations, his abilities and talents, and soon Blaine was reacting less from the skit and more from his own acquired self-awareness.

When he and Mike spoke, for example, they were no longer practicing a certain dialogue to understand the flow but rather bringing up the topic in the comfort and privacy of Tony's workplace. It was natural speaking with Riff as if he was Riff because, in the Tony-oriented portion of Blaine's mind, Mike Chang had always been Riff, just as he had always been Tony. Neither person existed beyond the confines of their stage, and it was an enchanting and almost intoxicating experience to set aside his own burden and play Atlas for another person's life for a few hours. Their conversations flowed, moving steadily from stilted and learning to smooth and experienced. It was not a process of becoming familiar with props and backstories and working from there. Riff and Tony built their friendship on that stage, moving from uncertain allies to lifelong companions.

Riff was like an older brother for Tony, someone he could rely on for advice no matter how secretive Tony had been in the past about the topic. Tony and Riff had started the Jets, they were the founders, the leaders, and in many ways Tony was not just Riff's right hand man but his best friend. They would both drag each other back from hell if it meant a few extra nights drinking beer together and complaining about the weather, and it was from their close-knit friendship that the rest of the Jets took their cue.

They were a family in many ways, albeit a dysfunctional, rowdy, and mildly incestuous one. Tony was the favorite, Riff the presiding father figure that yelled at people who needed to be yelled at and cracked heads together if it meant they would pay attention to him. Together, they made an unstoppable team, capable of suppressing any mutinies that attempted to arise within their ranks and quickly building a group that would protect each other's lives with their own. Tony was proud of his and Riff's ability to keep everything under control. He assumed leadership easily and relented to Riff when necessary, allowing his ego to keep their gang functioning. It was Riff who organized the dispatchment of rival gangs, after all, Riff who was always there to alert them if there was a threat encroaching or if one of their own was in danger.

Tony enjoyed his work with Riff because it meant that he could be himself and still have someone support him. Riff thought his inability to hold down a girlfriend was amusing, but Tony didn't mind, because he liked the way he lived and wasn't inclined to change it. Riff believed the only way to a happy life was to have a girlfriend, whereas Tony felt that his own freedom to choose how and where he lived his life were more important. They argued and bickered playfully about it but, in the end, couldn't find any middle ground. Riff insisted Tony needed to find some girl to entertain his fancy for a while, but Tony adamantly argued the contrary, saying that he was perfectly happy where he was.

It came as no surprise when Riff let himself into Tony's workplace, already talking amicably about some dance that was taking place downtown where the Jets were supposed to be present. According to Riff, he had promised Tony would make his appearances, showing that he was still alive and well and perfectly girlfriend-less, thank you very much. Tony nearly dropped the crate of bottles he was carrying when Riff informed him about the supposed rumble between the Jets and the Sharks that seemed to be culminating with increasing rapidity towards a violent endpoint.

Tony had no desire to face off in another gang war -- after defeating three previous big gangs and a half dozen minor organizations, Tony felt he had earned himself a life of simplicity and relative peace. He would never be content sitting around waiting for his bones to wither to nothing, but the violent encounters with other gangs had also tempered some of his bravado. Unlike the younger members of the Jets, he knew what it was like to attack a man fist-to-fist, no weapons, no shields. It was not an experience he wished upon any of his extended family members, especially people like Baby John, the newest inductee. They were just too innocent for that sort of crime, and his involvement in it had subdued Tony's wild spirit that had inspired him to form the Jets in the first place. Riff had never lost that fighting spirit and eagerly relayed messages of a 'war council' to be held between the Jets and the Sharks.

Listening with half an ear, Tony scrutinized the bottles in front of him, sighing as he turned around at last to confront Riff. His expression hopeful, Riff's look quickly turned crestfallen as Tony told him that he didn't want to go to yet another dance that would just be an excuse to try to hook him up with a girl or start a rumble. Riff insisted that that wasn't the point -- he just wanted him to show the other Jets that Riff hadn't killed him and buried his corpse somewhere -- but Tony knew better. Riff had been trying relentlessly to get him to accept that the fact that he needed a girlfriend, but Tony knew that he would be fine without one and did his best to emphasize that to Riff now.

"Come on, Tony," Riff pleaded. "Just think about it. It'll be fun. There might even be a rumble," he added, grinning, as though this last would tempt Tony more so than the former.

Tony sighed in exasperation and set down the last crate beside the rounded table, taking a seat and gesturing for Riff to do the same in the seat across from him. "I'm thinking about leaving Manhattan," he said at last, his voice soft but carrying.

"What?" Riff yelped, stunned, horrified. Tony winced, knowing this reaction was coming but doing his best to curb the tide as he continued.

"I just don't feel like it's my place anymore," he went on. "I mean, I love the Jets and everything but--"

"Tony, Tony, you can't leave us. We're family."

"I know," Tony said, picking guiltily at the wood. "But I feel like this is something I gotta do. You know?"

"No," Riff said flatly, his face still frozen on horrified. "Why? Tony, did we treat you wrong? Was it one of the boys? I'll kick them out, Tony, I swear--"

"It wasn't one of them," Tony assured. "It's just something I need to do. I'm not even a Jet anymore, Riff. I'm just this side guy you call in when you need something done. You don't need me."

Riff sighed, running a hand through his hair in clear agitation. "How am I supposed to run the Jets without you, Tony? You've always been there for us. You're like . . . we need you."

"I'm not leaving today," Tony assured. "Just . . . eventually."

Riff seemed to perk up at the revelation that Tony's departure wasn't that day, chattering aimlessly about the dance until at last silence fell between them. "And then we'll find you someone special, and she'll change your mind," he said at last.

Tony huffed slightly, disbelieving. Then, remembering something, he added, "I had a dream last night. That I was reaching for something. I don't know what it was, but I just . . . I almost had it, like it was at the tip of my fingers and just kept . . . slipping away." He made an airy gesture demonstratively. Riff frowned pensively at him.

"What do you suppose it means?" he asked at last.

"I don't know," Tony repeated. "Just . . . something."

Riff grunted, wrung a promise out of him that he would attend the dance that night at ten, before leaving. Tony waited until he was gone before setting down his crate and, closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, imagining being in Manhattan in 1957, Tony's era. The words flowed smoothly to him as he sang, filling the empty panorama with sound, with music, and he loved the invigorating feeling it gave him to just let loose and sing. Something was coming, something big, something huge, something even he and his massive ego couldn't contain, but what it was he didn't know. Tony relished the feeling of expectation, flourished in it, even as he tried to grasp at the mystery lurking just beyond his dreams.

He finished the final notes, listening to the quiet night air around him, eyes closed once more, before he opened them and listened to the applause.

Blaine resisted the urge to smile broadly as the curtain swung closed over him, a feeling of swooping, enormous pleasure consuming him as he practically bounced off the center towards the back stage where the rest of the cast was waiting.

"Nice job, Andy," Marcus, who was helping with technical support and largely doing the heavy lifting, approved.

"You were amazing," a voice whispered in his ear. Blaine beamed, whirled around, and was swept up in a near bone-crushing hug that left him slightly breathless once he and Kurt pulled away.

They could already hear Santana and Rachel arguing on stage about the length of Maria's dress, a mild snort of laughter escaping Blaine at the thought of Rachel arguing for a deeper neckline on any dress. She would probably be the first to insist on wearing a scarf to preserve her own decency before changing any neckline length.

Bernado entered the scene, Puck's voice carrying strong and steady over the rest, his inflected Spanish accent reasonably convincing. Blaine listened as Bernado beckoned Maria and Anita to the dance, noticing the stage darken as the scene switched once more. "We're on," Kurt informed, nudging Blaine's ribs slightly as he passed, his smile cocky and self-assured.

Hurrying towards the side where most of the Jets were mingling, keeping largely out of sight as the curtain rose, Blaine -- Tony, he supposed -- surreptitiously watched Kurt -- Officer Krupke -- standing near the back of the room, keeping an eye out for trouble as he watched the Jets and Sharks enter the scene. Tony hung back, staying at the wall, doing his best not to end up in any trouble or provoke Krupke any more this week -- already Riff had told him about their encounters after the Sharks attacked Baby John, an experience that seemed to have heightened Krupke's inclination to put at least a few gangsters behind bars.

Tony had no intention of being one of those -- there was nothing more demeaning than taking a ride in a police cruiser, even if jail itself was nothing too terrible -- so he kept his attention solely focused on being noticed by as many Jets as possible without actually participating in the group mambo that ensued.

It wasn't until midway through the night that Tony met her.

She was beautiful, and Blaine could admit that both as Tony and himself. Rachel Berry, once she traded in her hideous animal sweaters for more appropriate attire, was actually rather stunning. He didn't blame Finn -- Chino -- for wanting her, although she didn't exactly meet his tastes. Still, Tony found her to be exactly as stunning as any love-struck boy would have, and so Blaine played to that side and did his best to ignore his own nerves because she had taken his hand and he hers and now they had to kiss in front of a room full of people.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing about the entire thing was that he had to lean down to kiss her, even though they were both standing. That, and the fact that she was wearing some tasteless brand of lipstick that Blaine had no interest in exploring. Blaine counted the seconds in his head and was actually slightly relieved when Puck -- Bernado -- stepped forward and shoved him once, hard.

He staggered backwards, staring at Rachel in apparent surprise and even a twinge of horror as he realized she was the sister of Bernado and thus a Shark. Tony listened to Bernado order Chino over to escort his sister Maria home, a tall, lanky figure stepping out before tentatively grasping Maria's arm and leading her aside.

"Maria," Tony said softly, once Bernado was out of sight and the dance floor seemed to have retreated. He couldn't contain it -- the emotions simply burst forth in him and it didn't matter that she was Bernado's sister or that Chino seemed to have some sort of claim on her.

Maria, he sang.

It was a beautiful song, and Tony ended it as the stage darkened once more, bringing him back to the present as Blaine sidled off to the back once more.

"You just love the mic," Kurt accused fondly, bopping him on the head with his fake nightstick.

"Hmm," Blaine said, smirking, before sitting next to him on one of the benches as they listened to the 'America' number. "They're killing it," he said, grinning, while Kurt hummed and smiled.

The number ended, the crowd applauding as the curtain closed.

"All right, lover boy," Kurt said, patting Blaine's hip. "Get up there. You're next."

"Again?" Blaine groaned in mock-dismay, earning him another, slightly harder bop with the nightstick on the hip.

"Go on."

"All right, all right," Blaine said, grinning at Kurt before turning around and walking back towards the stage.

The night proceeded in a flurry of Tony and Blaine, with the latter reappearing whenever the scenes changed and the former taking over as the musical progressed. Blaine cajoled himself as the night wore on that at least Tony's death was soon and he wouldn't have to be skipping or running or dancing and singing for much longer.

Yes, because it's a wonderful thing to anticipate your character's death, Blaine thought dryly as he moved forward just for that scene.

Kurt caught him before he could leave and gave him a quick squeeze that confused him until he saw the look in Kurt's eyes.

"Just acting, remember?" he said soothingly, brushing his thumb over Kurt's cheek once.

Kurt made a noncommittal noise and gave him a little shove forward, shaking his head to himself.

Hoping that his staged death wouldn't upset Kurt too much, Blaine switched back to Tony and started darting around the stage, shouting for Chino, half-frantic and dazed and horrified. He couldn't think clearly, not after Chino had killed Maria, killed Maria. Riff was dead, and so was Bernado, and now Maria. . . . Tony wanted to find Chino, wanted him to 'come and get me, Chino!'

He panted against one of the fences, his breath ragged and uneven, until at last he saw, just down the aisle, Maria standing there, resplendent as always and, unless his eyes were mistaking him horribly, still very much alive. Heart pounding, he staggered away from the fence, rushing towards her as she did the same. She crossed the distance separating them faster than he did, climbing the stairs until they were on level ground and moving to meet him just as a loud bang! resounded.

Tony collapsed, Maria's arms coming to wrap around him just as he did the same, both of them crumpling to the ground. His breaths ragged and stilted, his life draining out of him ominously, Tony looked at Maria, raising a hand shakily to intertwine their fingers, wishing he had the strength or resolve to brush away the tears in her eyes. He could feel his existence melting away, slowly, slowly becoming nothing more. Maria started to sing, and he wanted to laugh or cry, both, really, and he gripped her hand to the last, tightly, tightly, then losing it all as he closed his eyes and ceased breathing.

Blaine took the next shallow breath, his movements as infinitesimal as possible to aid in the illusion of Tony's death. He felt an odd sense of loss, knowing that the character was gone, but he willed himself to focus and be as still as he could while Maria mourned quietly above him, her grief so deep that she trembled with it. Rachel really was a phenomenal actress, Blaine thought, as he could feel the captured emotions all through the simple touch where her fingers still grasped his limp ones with near bone crushing strength.

Jets and Sharks entered the scene, all staring in abject horror at Maria and the fallen Tony, Blaine limp and unmoving as Maria away from him, picking up the fake gun and aiming it at all of them, demanding Chino how many bullets were left. Blaine couldn't see Finn's -- Chino's -- reactions to the questions, raving, frantic. He half-wondered what Kurt's -- Krupke's -- face looked like, and then decided that he didn't want to see it, not now, not ever. He didn't want to think about how Kurt would react to his death, not that he wanted to consider his own or Kurt's deaths in the first place.

Keeping still and listening to Maria scream, Blaine kept his expression motionless against the wince he wanted to display. Tony was dead, and no amount of anguish could revive him. As Maria pressed a final kiss to his lips (Blaine inwardly doing his best not to react at all), the curtain closed, thunderous applause erupting beyond.

"Whew," he breathed, half-chuckling, half-relieved as he sat up and took normal breaths once more. "You were amazing, Rachel. That was -- oomph."

He had barely gotten to his feet before Kurt flung himself at him and literally squeezed all the breath out of him.

"You -- are banned -- from dying," Kurt growled, his voice a little choked. Blaine, wheezing a little with his laughter, still wrapped his arms tightly around Kurt and gave him a squeeze in return.

"I'm not sure I can oblige that interminably," he pointed out.

"God damn it, Blaine," Kurt scowled against his shoulder, and Blaine could feel him trembling. Pulling him aside and using one of the unoccupied mass changing rooms for cover, Blaine shut the door gently behind them.

"Hey, hey, calm down," he shushed, smoothing his hand over Kurt's back as it trembled. "I'm alive, I'm alive. See? Still here. It's just a role."

Kurt sniffed, and Blaine could tell that he was perilously close to tears and inwardly hated himself for accepting the role of Tony. They still had three more nights, after all, and even if Blaine told Kurt to stay home or something (they could easily replace Officer Krupke if need be), he knew that Kurt would still worry over it. "Shh," he said softly, not caring that they were supposed to be going out for the bows right about now. "I'm okay. You're okay. Everything's fine. . . ."

He kept up a soothing littany of nonsense until he felt Kurt's shaking recede and his breathing calm, their arms finally holding instead of crushing one another. Blaine kept running his hands up and down Kurt's back, feeling the tense muscles relax, and nuzzled his nose against Kurt's cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Kurt sniffed, not bothering move. "Why can't your understudy replace you?"

Blaine pulled him back slightly, still holding his arms but at a distance where he could actually look at Kurt's face. And yes, it was flushed even if his cheeks were dry, and Blaine could tell by the way he avoided his gaze that he was feeling a little more emotional than he wanted to let the rest of the cast now. "If you want," Blaine said, very seriously, "I'll quit the musical. I'll let an understudy step in. I don't mind," he added when Kurt looked at him with wide, almost horrified eyes, guilt and relief clear.

When Kurt opened his mouth, however, Blaine was surprised that he said, "No. I want you to stay in it. You're amazing as Tony, and . . . and if I just don't like the ending scene I guess you just owe me later." Offering a watery smile that made Blaine chuckle a little as he reached up, cupped his cheeks, and gave him a soft kiss to assure that that was absolutely fine with him, he asked, "Are you ready to go back out?"

Kurt took a few moments to just breathe deeply and visibly collect himself before nodding, cool and calm and confident once more. "I think we missed the bow," he added, almost apologetically as they re-emerged in the back stage area.

Blaine shrugged, interlacing their fingers, grateful that it was Kurt's hand and not Rachel's. Rachel's was small and warm and smooth, but it couldn't compare to how soft and slightly cool and so perfect as Kurt's was. Grinning because he would much rather have Kurt over Rachel any day, Blaine lead him off the stage towards the main area where people were mingling after the show. The hallways were congested but Blaine still noticed the lean figure making its way through the crowd towards them.

"Nice show, boys," Sebastian said, grinning at them, showing off all his teeth as he did so. "I was very impressed." He let his gaze linger on Blaine and Blaine could literally feel Kurt growl, the outrage radiating off him in almost palpable waves.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded.

Sebastian smirked. "If I want something, I don't give up," he said simply, sidling forward.

Blaine opened his mouth to say that he would be waiting a very long time if he was waiting for him to give up, but Kurt had already stepped in front of him, bristling. "I don't want you near us," he said, his voice low and threatening. "Get out of this school. Get out of this town."

"Unfortunately, this town has something I want," Sebastian pointed out, smiling in a mock-sorrowful way at Blaine. "As does this school." He looked pointedly at Kurt as though to say it was his fault for making Blaine transfer before shaking his head. "So how," he asked, pitching his words almost delicately as he edged closer, "do you smoke out a stubborn badger?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" a low voice growled, followed by Dave Karofsky a moment later. He was looking at Sebastian with barely contained menace, looking on the verge of tackling him and pounding his face in. Sebastian seemed to size him up and, after silently determining that Karofsky was physically more capable of beating him to a pulp, retreated. "Well, well, well, if it isn't David Karofsky."

Karofsky lunged forward, a few nearby spectators shrieking in alarm as Karofsky barreled past. Sebastian ducked aside and, within seconds, chaos erupted as Karofsky pursued him through the crowd.

The people still mingling roiled like an agitated, overcrowded fish pond, everyone attempting to simultaneously crowd closer and back away from the fight. Sebastian and Karofsky were cutting smoothly ahead, bystanders retreating, and after a moment's hesitation Blaine followed, needing to know what happened and deeply concerned about Karofsky. There was no way that Sebastian would walk into this completely unarmed, no way--

Sebastian was gone, however, by the time Blaine had forced his way through the last group of people, Karofsky snarling in outrage as he tried to follow Sebastian through a crowd of humanity still milling around the doors.

With a sigh, Blaine walked over to him and reeled back as one of Karofsky's fists shot out blindly, his other hand snatching for his throat. "You," he snarled, blind hatred in his voice as he stalked closer and now Blaine was on the retreat because he didn't want to know what an enraged Karofsky was capable of. He backpedaled frantically, not wanting to take his eyes off Karofsky in case he tried to tackle him, and silently begged someone, anyone to intervene. No one seemed willing to step between them, however, and soon the press of people was too much. Blaine couldn't retreat any further without stepping through a wall. Horrified that Karofsky -- still not thinking clearly, operating solely under the kill the bastard setting of his mind that was supposed to be reserved for Sebastian -- would literally maul him, Blaine did the only thing he could and lashed out first, his knee connecting with Karofsky's groin just as Karofsky's fist swung forward again and caught him hard in the face.

Grunting in pain, knowing he would have a black eye tomorrow and dizzied by the ringing in his ears, Blaine scrambled to get away while Karofsky was still crumpled over in agony, the world tilting slightly before realigning properly.

"Dude, what the hell?" a familiar voice interrupted, a pair of solid hands grabbing his arms and stopping his retreat. Blaine briefly tried to rip his arms away before realizing it was Puck and, just behind him, Finn. "Shit, that's Karofsky," Puck said, noticing the figure mere yards away.

"Blaine!" Kurt's voice was half-frantic nearby and Blaine tried to wriggle out of Puck's grasp and then nearly collapsed as his trembling legs didn't want to support him. Finn caught him, hoisting him back upright and keeping him there as Blaine watched dazedly as Puck forced his way over to Karofsky and, with Mike and Artie in tow, hauled the jock to his feet.

"No, don't," Blaine groaned, knowing what they were about to do. "Don't, don't. . . ."

Puck's fist landed on Karofsky's face with a horrible crunching noise. Blaine winced and closed his eyes, fighting the urge to throw up, and begged, "Finn, stop them, it's not . . . it's not his fault."

"Dude, that bastard just tried to kill you," Finn pointed out in a low voice, his grip both supportive and restraining. "Puck'll handle him."

"No!" Blaine said, struggling and hating that Finn was so much stronger than he was. Hell, Finn could toss him over one shoulder if he wanted to. "It's not his fault!"

"Blaine," Kurt said, panting, his voice much closer and suddenly Kurt's arms were wrapped around him and Finn had let go and -- Finn had let go.

Blaine scrambled to where Karofsky, Puck, Mike and Artie where, pushing the crowd of people aside, adrenaline letting him cut through it. Karofsky was giving as good as he got, Puck and him slamming into each other like there was no tomorrow.

"Puck! Puck!"

He didn't know what to do -- they would maul him if he got between them -- so he looked frantically at the spectators, flapping his arms desperately.

"Do something!"

"What the hell's going on here?" Marcus' voice rumbled. "Andy?"

Mercedes' boyfriend had plowed through the crowd in seconds, staring down at Puck and Karofsky in something akin to surprise. "The hell?" he asked.

"Get Puck off him," Blaine said, "Marcus, please, damn it."

Rumbling something disapproving, Marcus crouched down and somehow managed to pull a bloodied Puck off a similarly bloodied Karofsky. Who was responsible, Blaine didn't know, but he looked away and closed his eyes to keep from vomiting at the sight.

"Holy hell," Marcus said succinctly.


	44. Chapter 44

Twenty minutes after Marcus' summation, Kurt was sitting in the auditorium holding a cold pack as gently as he could to Blaine's eye while Finn stumbled through an explanation to Kurt's dad and Carole. They were both looking at him gravely, occasionally tossing glances over their shoulders at where Kurt and Blaine were discreetly out of sight of most passerby. Every time they did so, Kurt noticed, Blaine would allow this faint little smile to cross his face -- It's okay, I'm fine, it's nothing, everything's normal -- before letting it fall once they were clearly engaged once more. Kurt saw his dad's hands clench more than once throughout the explanation, his entire posture stiff and defensive. Kurt thought he was eager to find the culprits -- in this case, Sebastian and Karofsky -- and give them a thorough piece of his mind.

"Ooh, easy," Blaine chided lightly, reaching up to take the cold pack from Kurt.

"I'm so sorry," Kurt said, brushing his fingers apologetically against Blaine's upper arm, the nearest part of him he could reach without moving his own arm. Thankfully, Coach Beiste had been present and, as soon as Mike had run off to let her know, she had come back with an ice pack wrapped in a clean towel and a promise to expel whoever was responsible for it. Blaine had remained tight-lipped during that conversation, accepting the ice pack with a murmured word of thanks before pressing it with too practiced hands to his face, a soft sigh of relief escaping him. The thought of him in any pain made Kurt's heart ache, but perhaps the worst part about the entire affair was Blaine's calmness. He didn't act like this was something shocking and bizarre and out of the ordinary. If anything, once the initial trembling-with-adrenaline feeling wore off and rational thoughts began to intrude once more, he had been much calmer and even more collected than Kurt himself felt after the incident.

Karofsky could have beaten the crap out of you, wouldn't stop echoing through Kurt's mind, and he kept his grip firm and protective around Blaine's left arm as they sat side-by-side on the floor, for once not caring about clothing or whether their appearances looked almost childish. It felt almost safer, to be below the general eye level where no one was looking and no one would likely attack them. Kurt had felt himself relaxing as he realized that, however terrifying the event had been at the time, they had all survived and, for better or worse, it was over.

Still, he couldn't help tensing and listening closely to Finn's discourse of the events, adding in helpful details whenever the latter seemed to fall short. Kurt's dad would look back at him whenever he offered a detail and, after one quick glance at Blaine to be sure he was okay, he would ask Kurt for clarification on it or nod in acceptance. Kurt felt a certain warmth just knowing that his dad was there and would protect Blaine and him from anything else that might ensue (because there was no way any of the Hudson-Hummels were letting each other out of their sights tonight). That alone was more reassuring than any lengthy promise anyone from the administration of McKinley could have made.

Blaine adjusted the ice pack gingerly against his eye, Kurt sighing a little in regret as he saw that, no matter how many preventative measures they took, it was still going to bruise spectacularly. The vague discoloration was already visibly in slightly blotchy patches around his left eye. Kurt winced sympathetically when he pressed the ice pack against it, knowing clinically it would help without knowing exactly how much pain it was causing for its efforts.

At last, Finn fell silent above them, the remaining Hudson-Hummels simply absorbing the information while Kurt let his fingers trail comfortingly up and down Blaine's arm. He could see a little half-smile on his face at the gesture, but his main attention was focused on the conversation above them, even if Kurt's thoughts wandered.

Kurt's dad cleared his throat. There was a certain ominous ring to it that Kurt knew immediately meant bad news, and he felt Blaine stiffen a little beside him as though he sensed it, too. For one, the information they had just disclosed included the fact that Sebastian was obsessed with winning over Blaine (in what way, Kurt had no idea, but kidnapping and moving far, far away seemed as reasonable a conclusion at this point as wanting to sleep with him). That was new to both Hudson-Hummel parents, and Kurt knew there would be repercussions for withholding the information for so long. It would probably require at least one painful reiteration of the gay bar incident and he cringed to think about trying to explain to his dad and Carole (in the most innocuous fashion possible, leaving out every incriminating detail possible) that he and Blaine had gone to Scandals. Maybe if he could just make it sound like they had gone out, but not to a gay bar. . . .but that presented a similar challenge. If they had done something innocent, why hadn't they let his dad and Carole know sooner? Especially if Sebastian was such at threat? Kurt's emotions had been such a mess that night, though, and several days after, and he knew that Blaine was in no better position to have explained.

So, looking up at his dad now and waiting for a seemingly inevitable explosion, Kurt was surprised when his dad's tone was non-threatening, even comforting.

"I'm going to talk with Principal Figgins and let him know that Karofsky attacked Blaine," he said. Blaine made a protesting noise in the back of his throat and opened his mouth as though he would say something, but Kurt's dad looked at him and said simply, "We can't avoid it, kid. Even if his reasons were justified, we've still got to handle that end of the bargain."

"Puck's responsible, too, then," Blaine pointed out.

"Then Puck will have to face the same punishment," Kurt's dad said. "I'm sorry. Like I said, this is just something we have to take care of now before this other guy -- this Sebastian," and he spat out the word with enough venom that Kurt seriously thought he was going to go home, find his shotgun, track Sebastian down, and put a few rounds in him. "We'll handle him next. For now, we just need to make sure that Figgins knows something's up, because this can't happen again."

He said it with such finality that Kurt knew he would sooner throw himself in front of a gun barrel than see either of them in any state of beaten up. A single black eye hardly merited the gesture of faith alone, but the past history that they all shared courtesy of an unpleasant familiarity with Karofsky changed the entire game. The Hudson-Hummels had already struggled together when Kurt had been at war with Karofsky, Blaine entering the scene right when Kurt needed him. Now it was the reverse, Karofsky attacking Blaine (unintentionally, Kurt conceded; he could hardly consider Karofsky in his rational mind after reviewing the attack in his head), but with the supportive of the Hudson-Hummels to back him.

Blaine said nothing, just leaned a little more heavily against Kurt's side in a way that said, This is wrong.

"It's the only way," he murmured, so softly he doubted any of the other three heard it. "We have to keep the story straight or Sebastian'll just get away again."

Blaine looked at him, and it was clear he was recalling the gay bar scene as his good eye went wide with panic and he actually set down the ice pack on his knee, his expression half-desperate. "Kurt--"

"Shh," Kurt said, picking up the ice pack and, with a raised eyebrow, asked May I?

Blaine hesitated, on the brink of refusal given how Kurt's hand had involuntarily pressed the ice pack against his bruise hard enough to hurt when he was listening earlier, before nodding once. With gentle fingers and exceeding care, Kurt adjusted it back against his eye, hearing his slightly rough exhalation as Kurt's dad walked off, presumably in the direction of Figgins.

"How're you doing, sweetie?" Carole asked Blaine.

Blaine shrugged and offered a slight smile. "Kind of like Bernado punched me in the face instead of the shoulder," he admitted truthfully.

Kurt blinked at him, wondering suddenly if Puck's shove earlier had hurt, but Blaine just shook his head slightly.

"I'm going to go talk with him," Carole added, gesturing towards where Kurt's dad was conversing with Coach Beiste near the doors. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Take your time," Blaine assured, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture.

Kurt kept the pressure gentle against his eye, not wanting to hurt him any more than was absolutely necessary for the coldness to seep through the ice and into the forming bruise. He could tell Blaine wasn't in the mood for discussing the gritty details of the incident yet. What had inspired him to run after Karofsky -- Karofsky, when he was in a full-fledged rage and with murder on his mind -- Kurt didn't know. It was a laughable thought that he would need to protect Karofsky from anything, given his size, and yet Kurt had a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that that was precisely what Blaine had intended to do. Not in a physical fight, no; he would have let Karofsky chase down Sebastian without trying to intervene if it was a simple fist-fight.

No, Blaine had expected something more, something terrible, and despite the fact that he had no obligation whatsoever to warn or help Karofsky if Sebastian pulled something more deadly than his own fists into the game, he had still gone after him. Maybe it was some silly heroic complex of his that meant he had to be the first one to charge into a fray even if it meant walking through a room crumbling from a toxic fire or a football jock chasing after a potential psychopath.

Potential? Kurt demanded in silent disbelief.

"Why'd you do it?" Finn's voice asked softly beside him, and Kurt jolted slightly in surprise, accidentally pressing the ice pack against Blaine's face a little harder than he meant to. Babbling apologies as he flailed around helplessly to correct his wrong, immediately pulling the ice pack back once he realized what he had done, he was equally shocked when Blaine just reached out with steady fingers and guided his hand and the ice pack back to his face. He let out a slight gush of air that seemed more directed at Finn's question than Kurt's actions. Kurt still hesitated to hold the ice pack, wishing Blaine would take over so he wouldn't accidentally hurt him.

Blaine flashed him a brief look with his good eye -- I trust you, and that means that I know you'll make mistakes but still trust you enough to let you keep trying -- that made Kurt's mouth dry out and response impossible.

"What's Karofsky mean to you?" Finn went on in the same soft, mystified tones. "He's been such a jerk to you and Kurt."

"He's only been a jerk to Kurt," Blaine corrected.

Liar, Kurt thought, and before he was consciously censoring himself he blurted, "That's not true. He pushed you into the fence and threatened you and nearly attacked you at the Night of Neglect concert."

Blaine didn't say anything, and Kurt suspected he wouldn't get any answer, either, because Blaine himself didn't have one. In his mind, however, Karofsky wasn't the same to him as he was to Kurt. Karofsky was a bully to Kurt, a person not to be trusted and feared at all times, someone who could snap and do just about anything if he wasn't kept under a tight leash. Things were different with Blaine, it seemed, because he had stepped into Karofsky's life to protect Kurt, not the other way around.

Blaine didn't consider him at fault because Blaine had chosen to invest himself in Karofsky. It made Kurt's heart ache at the thought of what this must be doing to him, despite his collected demeanor. The fact that he was so calm was another reason to hate the whole situation because this hadn't happened to Blaine once but twice. He had been attacked after what should have been a wonderful night three years ago at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Only luck and Noah Puckerman prevented a similar event from recurring here, although Kurt wouldn't say that he had been betting on the intervention. That unknown element to the entire incident had been the most terrifying part of it. If Karofsky's strength and rage had gotten the best of him, he might not have simply given Blaine a bad bruise to remind him of the incident. Kurt had never felt more grateful for Noah Puckerman than he had in that instant, even if Blaine's anguished expression and his determination to separate Puck and Karofsky had quickly quenched any unanimously righteous feelings.

Blaine had been upset that Puck attacked Karofsky, upset that he had insisted on giving him a few bruise that hardly compared to the one blooming on Blaine's face. (Well. Puck had also given him a broken nose, and perhaps that was what had upset Blaine the most, since a broken nose was admittedly worse than a black eye.)

"I had to," was all Blaine said, with such sincerity, such belief in his voice that Kurt couldn't have argued with him if he tried. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway, because the fight had already taken place and casualties taken. Convincing Blaine that he was wrong for something even Kurt couldn't be entirely sure was wrong (besides the fact that it had resulted in Blaine getting hurt) would have been less than useless. Additional stress they didn't need right then, already trying to cope with the fact that Sebastian had come to the performance and started a fight because of it.

"Dude, you're not a superhero," Finn said, and Kurt wanted to roll his eyes and punch him. If this was supposed to be some form of pep talk or even persuasive speech to try and get the motives out of Blaine, it was failing. "You can't just take on guys like Karofsky like that. He could have really messed you up."

Blaine laughed softly. "I wasn't going after Karofsky," he said. "And I wasn't planning on doing anything unless Sebastian made a move."

"You still couldn't have done anything, dude," Finn said. He was sitting in front of Blaine, his knees bent as he rested his arms against them, looking earnestly at Blaine. Kurt had never seen that expression on his face before, with the notable exception of when he had been telling Kurt that they were brothers now and that he would protect him no matter what. His anger tried to stir because it was cruel and unfair of Finn to expect Blaine to talk civilly with him when he was supposed to be angry but too worn to fight it. "If Sebastian had pulled out a taser gun, what would you have done?"

Mildly impressed that Finn knew what a taser gun was, Kurt could hear the hidden allusion beneath the words, soft and insidious. What if Sebastian had pulled out a real gun? Then what would you have done?

Blaine's jaw was firm and unmoving, outwardly unbothered by the news, but Kurt wondered what inner turmoil lurked beneath the surface. He hated the fact that he could only see one of Blaine's eyes properly; his expression seemed so much more muted without full use of his eyes and eyebrows to express himself. He looked oddly subdued, sitting with his back pressed against the wall and Finn in front of him, a shuddering breath escaping him after an interminably long silence.

"I would have reacted," he said.

For some reason, it was even more ominous than if he had outright said, I would have stopped him. Stopped at least could be referring to a tactic that would keep self-preservation at the forefront. Just reacting implied that he would have done anything necessary to make sure that Sebastian didn't pull someone innocent -- even if that person was David Karofsky -- into the war that had been raging between the two of them.

Kurt felt anger welling up within him at Blaine's selflessness -- if you died, I wouldn't be able to live with myself -- but he quashed it before it could rise to the surface. He would talk with Blaine later about how much he was permitted to do in order to protect other people, including a very firm discussion about his own need to keep himself safe and alive.

Looking at Blaine then, Kurt realized that perhaps self-preservation hadn't been completely disregarded when Blaine had followed Karofsky. He would react, but in a way that lead to the best outcome possible, and he would protect himself because he liked his own life. He would suffer for other people, but he wouldn't die for them.

Not for Karofsky, anyway, Kurt thought, as an eerie possibility arose in his mind.

If he had gone after Sebastian and Sebastian had pulled a gun, he had no doubts that Blaine would have intervened, by whatever means necessary, even if it meant taking the bullet himself. Blaine didn't want to die and he had no desire to be injured any more than he could avoid, but he still was one of those noble people that couldn't stand by while other people were under attack.

"Kurt, would you mind giving us a moment?" Finn asked at last, his voice careful and measured.

Kurt looked at him, startled, then at Blaine, who met his gaze with his good eye before nodding once and taking the ice pack from him. Opening his mouth to protest that he didn't want to leave, Kurt stood up when Blaine gave him a gentle nudge to get him moving, his feet moving of his own accord. He paused several seats away, said very seriously, "I'll be back in ten minutes. If I hear any fighting, I'm coming back immediately," before turning and walking towards the stage once more, where most of the New Directions were still waiting, confused and partially informed about recent events.

"What happened?" Mercedes demanded as soon as he stepped into the back room, the entire group crowded around.

To tell them about Sebastian, or not to tell them about Sebastian, Kurt thought sourly. At last he settled for a deep sigh and did his best to make it sound like someone had aggravated Karofsky without naming names before relating the rest of the situation in as few words as possible. Mercedes and the remaining members of the cast still quizzed him relentlessly for deeper answers, Kurt keeping his voice level despite his urge to scream at them all that this was confusing and frustrating for him and he would really appreciate if they would back off and let him gather his thoughts first. He still owed them an explanation, however, because Marcus and Mike and Artie and Puck had been involved, and Finn and Blaine, too, and that was too many people to simply dismiss with the wave of a hand.

He kept a close eye on the clock, however, inwardly counting down the time until he could rejoin Blaine and Finn without breaking his promise.

If you do anything to upset him, I will shave your head, Kurt thought at Finn, wishing he could hear it and understand just how serious he was about that.

* * *

Blaine was exhausted and doing his best not to let on as he looked at Finn steadily, knowing that he had more questions he didn't want to broach in front of Kurt. Wondering what they were -- and half-fearing what they could be -- Blaine waited in patient silence for him to speak, biting back the urge to wince every time he adjusted the cold pack against his eye. It hurt terribly already, but he knew from experience that it would only get worse until it evened out to extremely tender in the morning. The worst part about it was its appearance: right then it was a motley of colors only partially visible, but it would soon turn purple and then black for its namesake. Blaine cringed inwardly at the thought of looking like half a raccoon.

"Why did you do it?" Finn repeated at last.

Blaine blinked, then sighed deeply. He had known it was coming, really, and Finn was not the sort of person to pick up the subtle hints of I don't want to talk about it that Blaine had been trying to project while simultaneously trying to appear in robust health. He didn't want Burt and Carole to worry excessively over him, so treating the bruise exactly as it was -- just a bruise, nothing more -- seemed like the most effective route to quelling mollycoddling. He appreciated their concern, but he didn't want to handle the consequences of it tonight.

Because, truth be told, he was a lot more shaken than he sounded, especially when he reassured Kurt that he was fine. He had wanted to be fine so that Kurt wouldn't freak out, and it had worked well until Kurt just kept staring at him like he knew something was up but didn't dare ask. Blaine couldn't do anything about those looks, though, because that was simply the truth. The incident had rocked him almost as badly as the publicizing of the Sadie Hawkins dance to McKinley had. The reminder that just because it had happened once didn't mean it couldn't happen again was unnerving, especially since Blaine had truly come to believe that while he might be slushied and called names and forever scrutinized for his sexuality, he wouldn't be hurt like that again because he knew better.

But the night after Scandals had proven that he was still capable of making mistakes, and there he was, facing the same situation with a black eye for his troubles.

I need to be more careful, he thought.

Then: No. We need to get Sebastian out of the picture.

Looking at Finn, allowing the silence to stretch contemplatively, Blaine at last shrugged his shoulders and said simply, "I couldn't let Sebastian hurt Karofsky for a grudge he has against me."

"Why is he so obsessed with you, anyway?" Finn pressed.

Blaine sighed in exasperation, his voice less patient than he would have liked as he said, "I don't know, Finn, but whether it's my uncanny ability to take over whatever club I'm in or some weird obsession with hobbits, I can't say what he sees in me."

That, at least, finally seemed to alert Finn that if he was going to prod Blaine for answers, Blaine wasn't going to sit back passively and let himself be gutted without launching a counter-offensive. He was in pain and frustrated and sick of Finn acting like things were either completely normal between them or like they were opposing forces during a bloody stalemate, and Blaine was tired of letting it continue. If Finn wanted answers for his motives, then he wanted some answers in return.

Finn's jaw was hard now, too, as though he sensed danger without being fully able to discern what it was. He approached his next question more cautiously, treating it with actual weight instead of feigned indifference. "Why wouldn't you tell any of us about him?"

"Let's think," Blaine said, his anger accelerating from dormant to raging almost faster than he could control it as he set the ice pack aside and ticked the reasons off his fingers. "One, you hate me, so I don't see how you would have been willing to do anything about it anyway. Two, the rest of the glee club doesn't need to be involved in this because it doesn't matter how many people we throw at him, Sebastian just keeps coming back. Three, there's nothing you can do to help."

"Of course there is," Finn protested. "We could've gone and kicked his ass before he tried to kick yours."

"Because then you wouldn't have been suspended for attacking a rival glee club member seemingly without provocation," Blaine said in a too considerate voice. "The point is, Finn, there was nothing you or anyone else in the club could have done. We had it mostly under control until tonight."

That last was a lie -- Sebastian's efforts had been escalating for a while now, to the point where Blaine had had to threaten him with a knife to get him to back off -- but there was no reason he had to tell Finn that.

Finn's gaze darkened, his brow furrowing as he asked at last, "Why are you so angry?"

"I'm angry because you're trying to act like you care now when all you've shown me this year has been that you don't," Blaine said sharply.

"I pulled you out of that fire, you know," Finn said in a low voice.

"And I am eternally grateful for that, but it doesn't just wipe the slate clean. I've tried not to get on your nerves or make you angry or steal your solos or your girlfriend's attention, but all you ever do is act like that's all I spend my time doing."

Finn opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then said, "You should put the ice pack over your eye."

"Why? Does it bother you to see that I'm actually not some robot created just to make your life miserable?"

"Kurt'll be pissed if he finds out you're not doing what you're supposed to," Finn warned.

Blaine laughed. Actually laughed, because it was either that or cry at the unfairness of the situation and he wasn't about to do the latter in front of Finn. "To hell with it. You and I both know it's going to look terrible tomorrow anyway."

"Actually, I don't, but thanks for making the assumption that I've had black eyes before," Finn quipped.

Blaine wanted to haul himself to his feet and storm off but his right leg had fallen asleep and he knew it wouldn't support his weight until it woke up properly. Wincing a little as he stretched it out some, he said in a more biting tone than he had intended, "You're a football player, Finn, wouldn't it make sense to me that you've maybe had a black eye before?"

"That's what helmets are for," Finn said, brow furrowed now in confusion before he shook his head slightly. "Listen, just--"

"That's all I've ever done for you," Blaine interrupted in a voice that was tired, so tired because he was tired of fighting this three way battle: against Karofsky, who still thought of him as both a mentor and an enemy; against Sebastian, who was probably willing to do just about anything to get a rise out of him; and against Finn, who just didn't get it. "I've listened, and I've honestly tried to do what you tell everyone else but it doesn't matter, because I'm just the Warbler from Dalton Academy that's gay and steals all the solos."

"I never said you stole all the solos," Finn protested.

"It was implied," Blaine snapped, because honestly how did Finn not see how defensive and closed off he became whenever Blaine mentioned competitions or whenever Schuester asked him about his role of Tony? If Finn had wanted Tony, then he could auditioned for it just as Blaine had and perhaps he would have won. Blaine would have conceded defeat. He wouldn't have left this poisonous indifference to fester between them until it was intolerable. Finn didn't seem to have reached the same level of intolerance as Blaine had, but there was realization on its way and soon, perhaps that night or maybe in two weeks, Finn would see that yes, he had been acting like a jerk for months now, in spite of his unspoken promises to do better after the fire.

Exhausted at the thought of wringing an explanation or apology or something from Finn that night, Blaine lifted the cold pack from his knee and held it back to his face, closing his good eye.

"Dude, I--"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore. I'm not going to, either, until you realize why not."

"Blaine--"

"Please stop talking," Blaine whispered.

Mercifully, Finn did, and when Kurt appeared not two minutes later Blaine had never been happier to see him, even if it was with only one eye in full use. His other was almost swollen shut at this point, sore and beginning to feel exceedingly tender. Soon enough Blaine wouldn't want the ice pack at all, but for now he would keep it, both to appease Kurt's sensibilities and to keep himself from letting his gaze drift back to Finn at all.

Finn could figure things out on his own and try and fix them, or he could do nothing. Either way, Blaine was tired of making sure that everyone behaved and that he was responsible for dealing with other people's hardships. Karofsky, Sebastian, his parents, all imposed difficulties he couldn't handle indefinitely, and right then all he wanted was Wes and David. They could have taken on Sebastian, and maybe even Karofsky, too, and then it would just be him and his parents and, without the additional stresses in his life, he might actually have been able to make progress on that front.

As it stood, however, Blaine just felt a little overwhelmed by it all.

Sebastian won't get away with this, he assured himself as Burt and Carole returned five minutes later, having talking with Coach Beiste and Schuester to explain the situation to them.

"Ready to go home?" Burt asked with a sympathetic look at Blaine, who was barely holding the ice pack to his eye now.

Kurt nodded eagerly beside him, Blaine wearily mimicking the gesture as he climbed to his feet, his legs mostly awake as he stumbled after the Hudson-Hummels. Kurt remained at his side, one arm looped companionably through his, and Blaine squeezed his hand gratefully in response.

Thank you.

A light squeeze back. You're welcome.

* * *

"Do you know where he is?"

"Warbler's Hall," Jeff replied. "Nick and I haven't let him out of our sight since he got back, and we're having the Warblers on 'our' side keep tabs on him. But we're still not letting him out of our sight, so that's just an extra guard, really."

"Good," Kurt said, propping his feet up on the couch. "Any strange behavior yet?"

"He's not saying anything, but that's pretty normal. Either he's always talking our he's just completely silent. It's kind of scary -- I think he's plotting something."

"As long as you don't let him out of your sight again, you should be able to intercept him," Kurt pointed out.

Jeff made a noncommittal noise. "He's hard to catch, Kurt. We had to literally follow him through the parking lot with questions about Warbler intricacies just to keep him from disappearing to his dorm and then God knows where. It's not like we've been careless, but he's a lot sneakier than I thought, now that we're trying to keep track of him."

"Well, the good news is that you shouldn't have to for much longer," Kurt said, relaying the previous night's events in slightly softer tones so he wouldn't wake anyone else up. He had woken at five AM and been completely incapable of falling back asleep, despite rolling over onto both sides, his back, and even his stomach. He had tried curling up to Blaine but Blaine was being a blanket-hog and Kurt didn't want to wrestle him for them. So, with a disgruntled noise at the early hour, Kurt had pushed himself out of bed and meandered through his morning routine, taking special care on his moisturizing regimen before deeming himself flawless and any further efforts counterproductive. Padding downstairs had been the most difficult part of the task because of the likelihood that Carole, Finn, or his dad would wake up, but he had made it to the living room without stirring so much as a hair on the Hudson-Hummels' heads.

Jeff whistled from the other end of the phone. "Oh, wow. Kurt, why didn't you tell me this last night? We could've had him locked under by the dean by now."

"I would have, but there's a couple problems," Kurt said, and then explained how Sebastian's appearance had provoked Karofsky's attack which had led to him turning on Blaine and, in front of dozen of potential witnesses, punched him in the face before Puck intervened. Jeff listened in silence, occasionally making an mmhm noise that let Kurt know he was still there. Once Kurt had finished, there was nothing on the other end, just quiet, until at last Jeff spoke.

"Let me get Nick," he said. He re-entered the Warbler's Hall -- Kurt knew from the general layout of Dalton that he had been sitting on one of the comfortable lounge chairs just outside of it, not wanting to discuss Sebastian in Sebastian's presence but also not wanting to leave the latter unguarded -- and, after several seconds of disguised explanation, the phone was passed over and Nick took over.

"Kurt?" he asked a few seconds later, once Kurt was certain that he had walked out into the hall and Jeff had taken his position inside the Warbler's hall. "What's wrong?"

"Well, we finally have the evidence to get Sebastian suspended," Kurt answered dryly, "but it comes at the cost of incriminating Karofsky, Puck, and Blaine."

"Who's Puck?"

"Noah Puckerman, boy with a mohawk, hotshot around here. He's a football jock, but he also is part of the New Directions, so he kind of plays for both sides."

"I see. And what happened that puts four people in jeopardy legal-wise?"

So Kurt delved again into the story, this time starting from the moment that Sebastian entered the hall and ending with Karofsky fleeing once Marcus had separated him and Puck. Again, there was a long pause, and for one wry moment Kurt wondered if he was going to ask to get Jeff, before he responded.

"That's . . . interesting. I think we'll still be able to get Sebastian, if for nothing else than we can finally prove that he did out someone and that someone tried to violently respond. However justified his reaction was, that's still tricky to work with. I mean, he could face suspension or expulsion for his actions, too, you know. Puck is probably in the same boat, but Blaine might be okay, since he didn't actually participate in the fight."

Kurt fiddled with the edge of his casual jacket, smoothing it down a little as he thought. At last, he said, "I hate to suspend Karofsky or Puck, but it looks like that's what's going to happen, if only because that's the only way we can get Sebastian, too. Everyone saw the Karofsky-Puck fight, but most people weren't paying attention to Sebastian until Karofsky chased after him."

"Do you want us to confront the dean now?" Nick asked. "I mean, he's an early riser, so he's already here, and we could tell him what you just told me -- and Jeff, I presume." Kurt made a noise of assent. "Then we could go down to his office and tell him and have Sebastian suspended by mid-morning, at latest."

Kurt toyed with his sleeve, thinking about that. It was a tempting offer -- to have someone else suspend Sebastian and just worry about his own sphere in Lima was a wonderful prospect -- but he knew that he would need to personally relay his story to the dean and over the phone just wouldn't cut it.

"Not yet," he said at last before the silence could drag too long. "Just keep an eye on him for now, and I'll be there by noon. With Blaine," he added, because it wouldn't hurt to bring him along to enhance the story and he was one of the only people that knew how Sebastian had gotten away from Karofsky. Not to mention the bruise might actually work in their favor; if the dean saw the damage that Sebastian's actions had caused, he wouldn't be able to set it aside in a he-said-she-said argument. This was serious, and they had tangible evidence against Sebastian, and although Kurt hated the thought of yet another fight with Sebastian -- however indirect -- just to get him suspended, he knew he had to do it.

"If you're sure," was all Nick said. "How is Blaine, anyway?"

"What are you doing up so early?" Blaine yawned, appearing at the bottom of the stairs and peering over at Kurt with sleepy eyes. "It's like, six in the morning. Or five." He yawned again, rubbing the back of his neck, and plopped down casually on the couch beside him. "Who's that?" he added, gesturing at the phone.

For a moment, Kurt couldn't answer, glad that Blaine was too tired to notice that he was staring at the bruise marring the left half of his face. It had colored spectacularly, as predicted, and now was clearly visible for what it was rather than implied by blotchy traces. Wanting to reach out and just smooth it away or something, Kurt knew that he couldn't and refrained himself from doing anything, not wanting to cause Blaine any more pain.

"Nick," he said at last, still staring at the bruise until he jerked his eyes away when Blaine looked over at him, looking surprised.

"What's Nick up to?" he asked, rubbing at the left side of his face that wasn't bruised as though that would somehow relieve the soreness. Kurt ached to help him but knew he couldn't do anything, instead holding himself back by sheer force of will.

"Kurt? You still there?"

"Sorry," Kurt apologized, speaking into the phone again. "Blaine woke up. And he's fine. Mostly. Black eye."

"Ouch," Nick said sympathetically. "Poor guy. It'll be nice to see him again, though. Don't take too long; this babysitting Sebastian's hard business," he added in a would-be joking tone, besides the fact that it really was hard keeping track of Sebastian.

Kurt noticed a slightly pink tinge to Blaine's cheek at the mention of his injury, his hand questing over it without touching it. "It probably looks awful by now, doesn't it?" he added a moment later with a musing smile.

"It'll heal," was all Kurt said, not wanting to admit that Blaine was right on this one.

"Oh. Gotta go. Looks like Sebastian's coming out. Talk to you soon."

"See you later, Nick."

Kurt hung up, turning the full power of his scrutiny to Blaine, who was staring at the couch in apparent fascination. "It's just a bruise," he said, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, but if anything his comment seemed to make it a little darker.

Blaine huffed, nodded, and looked over at him, then away as if embarassed. "So what's the new plan?"

Kurt smiled slightly at the implicit awareness that Kurt would have a plan and told him.

"We're going to get Sebastian suspended."


	45. Chapter 45

"So, the former Warblers are in town," Sebastian said softly, leaning against one of the walls casually as Kurt and Blaine entered the main hall. Blaine stiffened, his hackles raising, his urge to turn around and walk away nearly overwhelming the necessity of going forward with this. After all the previous encounters with Sebastian, he had overwhelmingly decided that he was under-equipped and outmatched when it came to dealing with him. He needed Barter's support, because when there was no one else to turn to, Dean Jacob Barter had always been a source of strength and resounding morality.

Even though Blaine was somewhat disheartened with his original decision not to suspend Sebastian when Nick had first presented the claims, Blaine had thought it over rationally and decided that the dean was acting in the most honorable accord. Dalton was a high school at its core, and that made it liable to petty arguments and fights like anything else, and without solid evidence or witnesses it was difficult to bring forth a claim and have action taken against the person in question. The dean would take every case seriously, yes, but he would never react without having the proper knowledge beforehand to make his decision. Nick's story had been fundamentally flawed because he wasn't a firsthand witness to Sebastian's cruelty and manipulation. He couldn't have presented a convincing argument because he only knew enough to understand Sebastian as a threat but not as a force that needed to be removed immediately.

Grateful that he wasn't petitioning against Sebastian alone, Blaine's gaze flickered to Kurt's briefly. With an infinitesimal nod towards the dean's office, Kurt signaled them to continue as planned, regardless of the fact that Sebastian had somehow deduced their intentions. Knowing Nick's and Jeff's talents for secrecy and subversion, Blaine had little difficulty believing that he had heard from then that Kurt and Blaine would be there to talk with the dean by mid-morning.

It was almost eleven o'clock now, and while it was a long weekend where most of the boys would be home visiting families, there were still a few stray students roaming the halls. They took no notice of the no man's land separating Sebastian from Kurt and Blaine, instead striding past as though Sebastian's presence was nothing more than a particularly life-like statue. Leading the way to the dean's office was simple: Blaine could still recall days where he had spent more time in Barter's office than in his regular classes.

Discrepancies had arose during that tremulous time about how much information they would reveal and to which teachers about Blaine's history. His English teacher in particular had been nosy enough to discover the reference to violence included in Blaine's past and incorrectly deduced it to mean that Blaine himself had been expelled for violence. After a long conversation with the dean that he could not tell Mr. Marlow about the experience, Blaine had eventually conceded defeat when it became apparent that Marlow would only relent if he knew the full story. From then on, Blaine had avoided him like the plague and only responded to direct questions in his classes rather than volunteering them. It wasn't hard -- at the time, he had been swamped with homework and barely able to meet his quota -- but he had still resented being forced to share that story with anyone.

The thought that Sebastian had shared it with Jacob Ben Israel, who had frivolously broadcasted the news to the world, made his fists curl and his desire to rearrange Sebastian's face escalate tenfold. Luckily, he was used to that urge and, unlike Karofsky, had learned to tuck it away for later when he could find some other outlet. He wasn't stupid enough -- not anymore -- to try and hold it all in indefinitely, but he couldn't afford to let his emotions overwhelm him now. Everything that Sebastian had done to him seemed to glare from that still cocky smirk plastered on his face. Stealing his phone, calling him unwanted pet names, attempting to blackmail him, coercing him into going to a gay bar, drugging his drink, kidnapping him. . . . The thought of finally reaping some vengeance was enough to restrain Blaine, but it was still a hard-won control.

Kurt followed at his back with a reassuring closeness, his gaze clearly fastened on Sebastian who insisted on trailing partially behind them both. There was no way the latter would be permitted out of sight now that they knew for certain he knew what they intended; unlike Nick and Jeff, Kurt would keep track of him. Blaine trusted him completely, just letting his old knowledge guide him through familiar hallways until at last they reached the main office, tucked away where casual visitors wouldn't necessarily think to look.

Walking up to the door, Blaine didn't bother look back at Kurt and Sebastian as he opened it. He simply stepped inside and stiffened, one hand still on the handle as he looked around. It was an eerie experience, walking in not just with a mental but physical reminder of the violence that had been recently forced into his life. The first time he had stepped into the office he had not had any bruises to show from the Sadie Hawkins' dance. Now, however, he did, a glaringly black one that covered his left eye and attracted attention like a moth to a flame. The middle-aged receptionist typing diligently at her computer paused at the unexpected arrival, looked up, and stared.

"Mr. Anderson," she said, a beat too late for casual, before frowning in confusion as Kurt and Sebastian stepped inside as well. "Mr. Smythe. Mr. Hummel. What are you boys doing here?"

"We need to meet with the dean," Blaine said, his voice calmer and more at ease than he had thought it would be.

She blinked and then visibly collected herself as she bobbed her head in a nod, finishing her email up with a flourish before punching the send key and whirling back in her chair to face them. "He should be free," she said simply. "Knock twice first, then enter."

Blaine was familiar with the routine so he strode over to the door and, without further ceremony, rapped twice on the heavy wood. There was a noise behind it, a chair being pushed back, before the door slid open a fraction. "Ah," Dean Jacob Barter said, his towering six feet seeming even more imposing when confronted directly. "We meet again, Mr. Anderson."

"We need your help," Blaine said perfunctorily, then, after a pause, added, "settling a . . . dispute."

War seemed a little dramatic, but Blaine knew that it was the most accurate description. Barter's eyebrows lifted fractionally towards his dark, short-cropped hair, his gaze flickering once to Kurt, then Sebastian, before he nodded slightly and retreated into the room, leaving the door pointedly ajar. Blaine took the invitation and, after a glance to see that Kurt was still following and Sebastian right with him, entered the dean's office.

It was the same as it had been when Blaine first entered it three years prior: there was still a standing bookshelf that covered nearly a third of the wall, most of the volumes unfamiliar tomes that Blaine would be hard-pressed to read titles from, let alone the works themselves. The floor was immaculate, the chairs clean and sharp, and the desk sharply delineating superiority in the room. Even if Barter did not have the authoritative figure he possessed, Blaine had no doubts he could commandeer it from behind that desk. He took his seat comfortably just as Sebastian stepped into the room, all smiles and confidence, still secure in his conviction that he could handle whatever Kurt and Blaine told the dean.

You don't know him as well as I do, Blaine thought.

The realization reassured him. Despite Sebastian's easy manner with most people, he still didn't have the connections with old acquaintances that Blaine had with people like Wes and David and, in this case, the dean. Knowing that he had that on his side was comforting. Hopefully there won't be too much gnashing of teeth, Blaine thought, taking a seat in the chair on the far right in front of the dean's desk while Kurt took the middle and Sebastian, the far left.

"So. What brings you to my office?" Barter asked, glancing between the three of them with mellow blue eyes. "Or should I ask, what happened to your face?" he added, looking pointedly at Blaine.

"The answer is the same to both questions," Blaine said and, after exchanging a brief look with Kurt to see if he wanted to speak first, looked back at the dean and continued. "I know accusations have already been brought forward that Sebastian has acted dishonorably in the past. I also know that, to date, he hasn't been punished for any of these. These being threatening, stalking, robbery, and other inappropriate conduct." Blaine ticked the points off his fingers, letting the pause stretch between them before shrugging a little and continuing. "Last night, Sebastian came to McKinley -- after posing numerous threats to both Kurt and I -- and continued to harass us."

"Harass now being synonymous with congratulate, of course," Sebastian added in a voice thick with sarcasm.

Barter looked at him, acknowledging the quip without deigning to respond, before returning his gaze to Blaine, who inwardly relaxed at the clear drawing of the lines. Sebastian seemed mildly irked that his remark had, for all intents and purposes, been ignored, but he recovered quickly and if Blaine had not seen the momentary displeasure that crossed his face, he would not have realized he was dissatisfied at all.

"Harass meaning harass," Blaine emphasized. "We had warned him not to come near us after he had stolen my phone on several occasions--" Blaine wished he could add and drugged, kidnapped, and nearly assaulted me as well, but he knew that revealing that would give Sebastian a dangerous edge: the illegality of his and Kurt's own actions by going to a gay bar. After much discussion in the car and an interminably long silence, they had mutually decided to leave that out. They had plenty of evidence to get Sebastian suspended without mentioning it, and the later it had to come to light, the better. "But Sebastian persisted," he finished. "He tried to intimidate us when another student appeared and interrupted him."

"Interrupting is a fairly mild word for it," Sebastian said softly, his voice confident, unaltered. "He nearly attacked me. Had I not gotten away, I'm sure he would have succeeded."

"David Karofsky was present at McKinley the same night," Blaine continued, ignoring him. "Sebastian . . . outed him several weeks ago to some acquaintances." That had been the most difficult part to decide upon: Blaine had not wanted to mention why Sebastian was mad at Karofsky to preserve some of Karofsky's privacy and yet, as Kurt grimly pointed out, Karofsky was probably on the verge of being outed to the whole school anyway. They had already seen dark hints from several of the jocks that they knew Karofsky's sexuality (for one, neither Kurt nor Blaine had seen Karofsky in his letterman's jacket since he revealed that he had been outed; for another, the jocks seemed to avoid him like the plague, continually finding reasons to be elsewhere whenever Karofsky walked by). It was only a matter of time before the churning indecisiveness became outright warfare as the jocks rejected one of their own. Fearful of that occurrence but also recognizing it as an inevitability, Blaine had grudgingly conceded to Kurt that it would aid in their evidence and also strengthen their argument against Sebastian.

Barter stared hard at Blaine, his almost-gray eyes unfathomable. Blaine withstood the scrutiny with an effort -- even after three years, he was still unaccustomed to Barter's judgment -- until at last Barter's eyes switched to Kurt, who sat a little straighter in his chair as Barter tipped his head faintly in his direction, a permissive gesture.

"How do you reckon all this, Mr. Hummel?"

"If I may, Mr. Barter?" Sebastian intruded, his voice the perfect combination of innocence and delicacy. Perfect if he was dealing with anyone other than an experienced lie detector such as Barter, who merely flicked him a look and said, "No," in a similarly polite tone. He looked back at Kurt, gaze unwavering, and Blaine itched with the sudden urge to redirect attention back to himself. He disliked the way that Barter's eyes oriented on his black eye, assessing, judging, but he also knew how discomforting it could be to sit under his hawk-like gaze.

Kurt did not falter, however, and his voice was steady and strong and serious as he spoke.

"The way I see it," Kurt said, his voice soft but not timid, "Sebastian is not only a despicable human being for revealing information that was never his to disclose, but also one who does not regret his actions in the slightest. He told McKinley about what had happened to Blaine at the Sadie Hawkins' dance three years ago at his old school." Blaine could almost feel the apology in his voice for having to reiterate that point in front of two other people when Blaine had spent months building up the courage just to tell Kurt, but Blaine had known the dean for longer and Barter had always known about the incident. He hadn't classified Blaine as a basket case for it and he hadn't treated him like he was broken because of it. In a world that had been continually indifferent to his struggles in high school, Barter had been the one person who understood but didn't judge his predicament.

Sebastian, Blaine would rather not have to talk about it any more than necessary, but it was necessary now and Sebastian already knew, so he hardened his jaw and kept his neutral expression firmly in place as he looked at Kurt and listened.

"He told McKinley about David Karofsky's sexuality against his will." Kurt took a small breath, calming himself away from a more heated rant. In front of a less scrutinizing audience, the gesture would not have been noticed at all; in front of them, however, Blaine knew it was not missed by either Sebastian or the dean. "He stole Blaine's phone. He stalked us, to the point where he showed up at my house, uninvited. He coerced Blaine into having conversations with him in public places to put up the illusion that they were together. He invaded our personal space. He threatened us with his presence, and has continued to act in a way that, at this rate, has made us concerned not only for our own safety but for that of others. If David Karofsky had not intervened last night, it is hard to say what he would have done then."

Kurt looked at Sebastian with opaque eyes, but the animosity was unmistakable. Incredibly, Sebastian merely offered a smirk in return, seemingly unalarmed by the accusations.

"Mr. Smythe?" Barter said at last, his voice seeming to come from a long distance away from their unspoken war. Blaine could tell that Kurt and Sebastian would literally be at each other's throats if it wasn't for the presence of the dean; the tension charged the air, making Blaine feel more anxious than ever to have this done and over with.

"What these two boys are saying is grossly blown out of proportion," Sebastian said. If Blaine didn't know any better, he would think he was the innocent party: his voice held a conviction, a ring of truth to it that was more effective than disguised lying. He actually believes what he's saying, Blaine thought, and then he listened as Sebastian continued diplomatically. "I visited them last night because I had heard from a friend that they would be performing and was interested in seeing and supporting them. Blaine, obviously, has had a remarkable history here at Dalton -- he's something of a legend, really -- and I thought I might draw some inspiration from watching him perform. Kurt, too, I understand is an admirable performer."

There was a moment's pause during which Kurt and Sebastian mutually -- and silently -- decided that they would rather gouge their own eyes out before seriously acknowledging either as the superior performer before Sebastian went on.

"I apologize if my efforts came across as . . . threatening," he said. "I merely wished to congratulate you both after an excellent performance."

Barter leaned back in his seat a little, scrutinizing him.

"As far as the remaining accusations go," Sebastian added, looking between Kurt and Blaine skeptically, "I have done nothing wrong."

"This bruise came from nowhere, then," Blaine's voice said without conscious permission. Barter's gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment Blaine thought he would rebuke him for interrupting Sebastian's side of the story, but he merely waited, his eyes patient, lion-like.

"Karofsky tried to attack Sebastian because of what he had done," Blaine said, startled at the contrast between his and Sebastian's voices. Listening to Sebastian's made his seem clearly superior, more confident and more assured and more convinced that there was absolutely no wrong that he had committed. Blaine's, however, was raw, honest, and brutal, and he lunged on the opportunity as he realized that Barter wasn't going to interrupt him. "Outing someone is not like stealing their phone. Outing someone is not something that you can just pass off as one of those stupid mistakes everyone makes in high school and move on. Outing someone can result in that person committing suicide. Sebastian Smythe outed David Karofsky for no more reason than he wanted to get a rise out of me. He did it to spite me, I think, because he couldn't have done the same for me. I was -- and still am -- out and proud already, so there was nothing he could do to possibly humiliate or even ruin me like that. We don't know how Karofsky will react to this, but I commend him for wanting to give Sebastian a piece of his mind, because even if he survives high school and seems to be doing all right, five, ten years down the line, how do you know if the fact that someone forced him out of the closet won't be torturing him? Every year people die because of hate crimes and bullying, and ignoring everything else Sebastian has done, outing Karofsky is something that I refuse to let him get away with.

"And where is my proof? This bruise. Shortly after you fled, Karofsky tried to attack me. Do you know why?" he added, looking directly at Sebastian now, neither blinking. "Because sometimes you're so angry and frustrated that you can't help but do something about it, vent it, give it to someone else. I was the nearest person, because I didn't want Sebastian to hurt Karofsky, and I was on the receiving end of this." He gestured a hand vaguely towards his eye, largely for the dean's benefit, since Sebastian was still staring at him with calculating eyes. "This bruise is proof of what he has done. Bruises don't look like this if you run into a wall or trip and fall onto something. This is a fist, and if you don't believe me," he added this last to the dean, although it was a great and terrible effort to pull his gaze away from Sebastian's, determined as he was to make him finally see how much damage he had wrought, "I would be delighted to give you the contact information for Principal Figgins, Mr. Schuester, Coach Beiste, and at least two dozen witnesses that saw the event as it happened."

There was silence once Blaine finished, silence deeper than normal, more grave somehow. Blaine waited, ready to do anything necessary to convince Barter that Sebastian had done all of this, all of this, and consequences be damned if it meant revealing that he and Kurt had illegally gone to a gay bar. Karofsky might die because Sebastian had outed him. Blaine had no idea how well he was coping with the fact, besides the stark reminder on his face that the rage he felt towards Sebastian was unabated. In a twisted way, he was glad that Karofsky had attacked him: it meant that no one else was hurt (although Blaine would have loved to see him give Sebastian a black eye) and given him a necessary outlet for his fury. Of course, he hadn't objected to Puck taking over the fight, but if it meant that tenuous difference between Karofsky tipping over the edge of wanting to continue and not, then Blaine would gladly take the black eye.

At last, Barter pulled out a single sheet of blank white paper and set it on his desk. "After hearing both sides of the story," he said judiciously, and only Dean Barter could sound sanctimonious without being consequently condescending, "it is my understanding that you, Mr. Smythe, have behaved far out of line. Not only have you endangered the life of another person, but you have also committed acts that are not permissible at Dalton Academy, whatever the reasons. I hereby suspend you for two weeks. I will be bringing this to the school board," he added, Sebastian's expression flat and unmoved, "and we shall discuss further disciplinary action then. I would not consider expulsion to be out of term. With your suspension, you surrender all privileges, including membership in the Warblers. I am sorry this has come to be," he added, more for Kurt and Blaine's benefit than Sebastian's, "but I will be speaking with your contacts, Mr. Anderson, and using their information to present to the school board."

Blaine inclined his head in acknowledgment, already running over in his mind the tedious process of obtaining statements from the dozens of people that had seen Karofsky attack him once Sebastian left. Of course, he thought, a tiny smile quirking his lips, half the glee club had been present and, if they cared about Kurt at all, would be willing to pitch in their opinions.

He had no delusions that they wouldn't do it for him. They supported him, yes, but for the most part he was still largely ignored or, if he did decide to speak up and submit his opinion, put down by people like Finn. That was an issue that he knew had to be resolved somehow, and yet he simply didn't know how.

Leaving Barter and Sebastian in the office felt like leaving a tremendous weight behind, and Blaine almost sagged with relief as he realized that they had done it, really done it. He felt Kurt's hand slide into his own and gave it a grateful squeeze as they walked, passing the typing receptionist on the way out (she didn't look at them, just uttered a preemptory "Have a nice day" at their backs).

"Barter's good at keeping people under control," Blaine said, "he'll keep Sebastian from coming after us. Kurt, we're done. Sebastian can't come after us or Barter will have the police on him, and I'm not even joking about that. We don't have to deal with him anymore. We can just. . . ." He made an airy gesture, unable to find words, and sighed slightly. "We still have to work with Karofsky, and make sure that he won't actually commit suicide because I know I said it in the heat of the moment but I meant it because it does happen and God, I really don't think I could handle it if he died on us--"

"Blaine," Kurt interrupted softly, giving his hand a squeeze, but Blaine couldn't seem to stop the torrent of words pouring forth from him as they walked out into the brisk November air.

"Not to mention my parents, who will be absolutely thrilled when Barter gives them a call to say that some person they've never even seen before has been stalking, harassing, and threatening their son for weeks now--"

"Blaine," Kurt repeated, halting him midway to the parking lot, the sidewalks dusted lightly in snow as it drifted down gently from above. It was almost peaceful, Blaine reflected, and he felt another bit of the tension dissipate within him as he realized that, whether or not Sebastian ever tried to stake a claim on him again in the future, they had succeeded in putting him out of commission for now. He wouldn't dare attempt anything with Barter watching him, anyway, and Blaine was pleased that he was taking it further to potential expulsion.

He frowned slightly at the thought of what would happen if Sebastian was expelled and, in a fit of rage, decided to set his sights even more ardently on Blaine since there wouldn't be as many incentives to behave (or at least, publically behave, while privately attempting to ruin Blaine's life however possible). He didn't even realize that he was explaining it until he came to a sudden halt at "Kurt, what if--" the silence seeming heavier than the snowbanks around them.

"Blaine?" Kurt said a third time, and finally Blaine heard and processed and actually listened to it, his next rant dying on his lips. "Can we just . . . go home? I mean, I know that we're supposed to celebrate now that we've finally defeated Sebastian and everything but. . . ." He yawned, cupping a hand to his mouth, and Blaine realized for the first time that, while looking pleased, he also looked exhausted. With a pang, Blaine wondered if he had slept at all last night, if the early morning Kurt he had seen was actually an all-nighter Kurt, but Kurt didn't let him answer, simply towing him along until they reached Kurt's Navigator.

"Let me drive?" Blaine asked.

Kurt hesitated, looking at him, and Blaine added, "I won't break it. Promise."

With a last wary look and a soft laugh, Kurt handed him the keys, shaking his head all the while as he walked over to the other side of the car and slid into the front passenger's seat.

Blaine flipped on his iPod dock to a pleasantly low volume, creating the conversational noise that neither boy felt up to making. Within twenty minutes Kurt was out, soft and quiet and peaceful, and Blaine felt a smile curl his lips as he hummed along to his songs.

Maybe they would be okay. Not just in the indefinite future, but now. Once they got home and just -- for lack of better words -- cozied up to the fire and didn't think about anything evil or terrible for a day, then they would be able to recuperate from all the stress and hell Sebastian had put them through.

It wasn't until Blaine was lying on the couch with Kurt drowsing on his chest, half on Blaine, half on the couch, that he realized that he referred to the Hudson-Hummel house as home as often as Kurt did.

A small smile quirked his lips.

This is home, he thought, brushing his thumbs against Kurt's shoulders lightly. This is definitely home.

* * *

"Oh. Hello, Kurt Hummel. What brings you here?"

"I need to talk to you about Karofsky," Kurt said, edging into Principal Figgins' office and standing beside one of the chairs, one hand holding his satchel for support. After confirming with Barter that Sebastian would finally have his comeuppance for making his and Blaine's lives miserable for months, Kurt was feeling re-energized and ready to tackle new challenges. The first and foremost issue on his mind was that of Karofsky. In some corner of his mind, Kurt wanted him to be suspended interminably for attacking and nearly mauling his boyfriend, yet he also understood from Blaine's explanation the other day that doing so could lead to worse consequences than simply a month's worth of missed schoolwork. (Puck had already resolved his actions as 'self-defense,' although how he had managed that, Kurt had yet to find out.)

Kurt had been reluctant at first to change his mind. He still believed that Karofsky deserved to be suspended for his actions, simply because, however justified they were, there was still the fact that Karofsky had attacked Blaine and nearly mauled him. If Puck's intervention hadn't taken place, Kurt didn't want to think about what condition his boyfriend would currently be in. It had taken hours of silent consideration, listening to Blaine's soft, even breaths underneath him as he dozed in and out of sleep himself, until at last he concluded -- grudgingly -- that he needed to fight the general consensus that Karofsky deserved to be put on suspension indefinitely. Kurt's dad had already spiritedly spoken about expulsion, the thought making Kurt wonder how he would react. What sort of life did Karofsky lead outside of school? Was there enough to sustain him beyond his shallow standards of popularity and importance at McKinley to keep him from turning to worse outlets?

Kurt didn't know, but the least he wanted to do was reduce Karofsky's punishment to definable terms. A week's worth of suspension wouldn't ruin Karofsky's academic career or his status at school. It would also appease the side of Kurt that wanted justice for Blaine's injury, so he was willing to fight for it even if it meant further arguments.

Besides, Kurt was good at arguments, especially against Figgins, and he continued with preempting, confident and calm.

"He should only be suspended for a week," he said. Figgins' eyebrows raised, his hand setting down his pen without taking his eyes off Kurt's face. "Puck was able to escape punishment completely, and Karofsky didn't actually intend to attack Blaine."

"We have a strict no-violence policy here at McKinley," Figgins pointed out, sounding like he was reciting from a rule book.

Kurt put on his best innocent expression as he tilted his head a little and asked, "Really? Why hasn't it every protected the glee kids from being shoved into lockers, tossed into dumpsters, and slushied, then?"

Figgins sighed, dragged a hand over his face, and let out a harassed sigh. "I understand your grief, Mr. Hummel," he said, "but unfortunately those are not topics defined by the school board as acts of physical violence. Neither dumpster tossing nor slushying counts. If you can prove that you are being shoved into lockers, however, we can take action."

Of course, Kurt thought bitterly, recalling the days when he had been desperate for someone to hear him, anyone, before if no one did he was fairly sure he would explode. Keeping those thoughts to himself, he shook his head as he continued. "My point is this: Karofsky reacted because of a completely different situation involving another person. He's already dealing with enough hardship because of that and I really don't think he can mentally afford an indefinite suspension."

"So what are you proposing?" Figgins asked, sounding wary.

"One week of suspension," Kurt said simply. "If he doesn't reform in that time, you can suspend him all you want." Kurt would be having words with Karofsky during that time, however, to ensure that he wouldn't, so he wasn't worried about his plan backfiring by Karofsky simply refusing to cooperate.

Figgins looked pensive for a moment, hands clasped as he stared at them in thought, before he nodded slowly at last. "I might be able to arrange that," he said. "However, I must ask -- why are you so concerned for Mr. Karofsky?"

"He's struggling," Kurt said, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. He didn't want to reveal the full details to Figgins unless it became necessary (which, with the impending call from Dean Barter, it was probably already an inevitability). Figgins eyed him for a moment, appraising, before nodding slowly at last.

"I will consider it," he said, in a tone that said he had already decided in favor of Kurt. "Mr. Karofsky will be notified as soon as possible. He is currently prohibited from the grounds," Figgins added, "as part of his immediate disciplinary action."

"That's fine," Kurt said. "And thank you."

Figgins bobbed his head in a nod, picking up his pen and returning to his scribbling without further adieu. Kurt turned and walked out of the office without waiting for a more formal dismissal, his conscience somewhat appeased if not fully calmed by the latest conquests.

We'll figure it out, he assured himself, hurrying off to glee club before Blaine would wonder where he was.

* * *

It turned out that Blaine was with Rory watching Artie and Mike stage the Nerdy Debacle of the century in the front of the choir room, both waving what looked like expensive phones. Kurt couldn't tell what brands they were or what the argument itself was, besides an enormous amount of technical talk that he would have been hard-pressed to translate even with the available resources, but whatever it was had clearly engaged the two for the moment. Not bothering to ask what was going on -- it was fairly clear, after all -- Kurt just sat down beside Blaine and watched the two verbally spar. It was refreshing to not have to bother with his own problems for a little while, and while he didn't think he learned a single useful thing from the debate (or, rather, a single thing he would remember), he was glad he had made it to glee club before most of the group.

"What are you three doing?" Mercedes asked suddenly, jolting Kurt from his reverie. He noticed that Mike and Artie were sitting calmly beside each other at the far end of the group of chairs while the rest of the glee club had filed in. With a slow blink, Kurt realized that he had actually dozed off a little against Blaine's shoulder, his mouth gaping partially and -- oh, for the love of Gaga, please, say he hadn't drooled on Blaine's shirt.

"Watchin' Mike an' Artie," Rory chipped in helpfully, while Kurt alternated between looking completely unruffled by his less-than-perfect appearance and panicking about whether he had drooled on his boyfriend's shoulder. "They were fightin' abou' somethin' with their phones, I think."

"iPhones," Blaine agreed, nodding and looking only amused when Kurt cast him a look that said Did I or did I not drool on you?

Mercedes turned to look at the two boys in question and Blaine shrugged a tiny bit, making Kurt groan inwardly and want to head-desk against the nearest hard surface. The back wall would have sufficed beautifully but there was the small matter that Mercedes was looking back at them and chatting amiably. Blaine and Rory filled in responses, each contributing wherever the other left off, and Kurt couldn't help but roll his eyes fondly after the fifth or sixth time it happened where Blaine corrected one of Rory's misconceptions and Rory promptly tossed out another one.

"Kurt? Hellooo?"

"Huh?" Kurt asked, blinking as he realized that he was expected to contribute to the conversation, too. With a soft sigh, he said, "Sorry, 'Cedes," and did his best to listen intently as she explained what her weekend plans were for the holidays.

Kurt found himself blinking in bafflement as he realized that next week was December. And December meant Christmas, which meant by buying gifts for everyone, which meant that Kurt's stress levels were about to enter their usual holiday madness extremes. Groaning inwardly, he sighed as he explained that no, he honestly hadn't thought about it and that he would have to start planning his own shopping out soon and yes, Blaine would have to come.

"Kurt, I admire your confidence in me, but I'm really not good at picking out gifts for people."

"I need a point of reference for sizes," Kurt answered primly. "Besides, who else am I going to recruit to help fend off the charming but still mad girls that think I'm just the most darling thing to ever step into a store?"

With a snort of laughter, Blaine shook his head, glancing at Rory before looking back at Kurt. "Kurt Hummel and his legion of admirers," he chortled.

Rory folded his arms and sighed. "I wish I had one of those," he piped in sullenly. "How come you two get all the luck?"

"You can have my legion," Kurt assured, laughing at the thought that he and Blaine had 'all the luck.' Blaine's charming nature tended to attract girls like bees to honey, and while Kurt did his best to keep his sharp wit intact, there were still some that saw him as a baby penguin who was too adorable for words. Kurt harrumphed at the thought -- Blaine the heroic knight-in-shining armor, Kurt a fuzzy, flightless bird -- before pushing it aside and focusing back on the present conversation. They may have had luck in breaking girls' hearts, yes, but in every other department they seemed to be having resoundingly little luck. "Just come to the mall with us someday and I'll hook you up," he told Rory, looking over as Mr. Schue and the rest of the glee club trailed in.

Looking somewhat placated, Rory looked up at the front as Mr. Schue clasped his hands together. "All right, guys," he said, Kurt and Blaine's attention drifting to him after a moment. "I know that we didn't get off to the most auspicious start on Friday--"

All eyes turned to Blaine, and suddenly the warm, friendly environment disintegrated as the curiosity and skepticism peaked in equal amounts. Blaine flushed a little, looking like he wanted to climb out of the window behind him and disappear, but he held his ground and didn't back down. Kurt reached over and gave his wrist a reassuring squeeze, and he smiled a little at him, still looking slightly away from all the stares directed at him.

"Mr. Schue, if I may?" Puck asked.

Mr. Schue nodded, turning over the floor.

"I don't get why the hell they ever let Karofsky back in this school, but if he comes near us again, I'll beat the crap out of him."

There was an approving murmur from the group as a whole, although Kurt saw Blaine's face flush slightly. The wording could not have been worse: Kurt remembered the conversation he and Blaine had had before Prom at the Lima Bean very clearly, how Blaine had talked about what had happened purely as the fact that he had had the living crap beaten out of him. It didn't surprise Kurt when Blaine spoke, but he still wished that he had been faster to speak, to step in, because Blaine's voice was steady and solid and alone, like this was still some problem that only he and Karofsky could possibly resolve.

I'm here, too, Kurt thought.

"It wasn't his fault," Blaine said. "He was thinking about someone completely different when he punched me, and--"

"This isn't about just you, Anderson, this is about protecting all of us. I don't know how things worked at Dalton, but here we're a family, and I sure as hell am not going to sit by while someone tries to threaten someone else around here. It's not cool."

The quip about Dalton hurt Kurt, but he could see Blaine holding himself firmly in check against further comment. Why? he thought, suddenly miffed that Blaine had to censor himself just so he wouldn't step over anyone's delicate sensibilities. You should be angry.

He didn't say that, though, not before Blaine was able to retort. "I get that you don't like people threatening the glee kids, but--"

"Damn straight I don't," Puck said, turning around fully in his seat to regard Blaine. "Out there they treat us like we're nothing. And if we don't stand up for ourselves, we'll get knocked right out of existence. Know why? Because we're Lima losers here."

The emphasis on Lima was not lost, and Kurt saw Blaine retreat a little before a different voice spoke up.

"Puck. Leave him alone."

"No way," Puck retorted, glaring at Finn as though he had mortally wounded him. "This isn't something we can all just dance around and sing about and make better. You got freakin' attacked, and if it wasn't for me, Karofsky would have ripped your face off. I don't care if you want to be a martyr on your own, but when something like that happens, we protect each other, while you can do whatever the hell you wan--"

"Enough!" Finn snapped, whirling in his seat to glare at Puck. "Dude, lay off him, would you?"

"Oh, like you've been a saint," Puck said sarcastically. "Besides, you should be happy I got that guy off you," Puck added in Blaine's direction.

"Stop treating him like he's not one of us," Finn said in a low voice.

Kurt could see the pained look on Blaine's face better than anyone and wished he could just reach out and knock both Puck's and Finn's heads together but he refrained. With an effort. "Well, if it isn't the kettle calling the pot black," Puck said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I nearly land my ass in juvie because of you guys, and this is the kind of thing you expect me to put up with?"

"Enough, guys," Mr. Schue interrupted, but Kurt could have told him from a mile off that he wouldn't regain control of this argument until it burned itself out.

"Well, Hudson? You think you're some sort of champion, but don't tell me that I'm the one acting hypocritical here."

For a moment, Kurt thought Finn didn't know what the word hypocritical meant before he scowled and pushed his chair back, standing. The room was suddenly charged, Puck on his feet and covering ground quick, Mr. Schue flapping his arms uselessly while the rest of the glee club rose as well, not wanting to be sitting down during a fight.

And then Blaine and Rory were right at Puck and Finn's level, Rory in front of Puck and Blaine in front of Finn, and if Kurt had ever heard of the word covering one's back that was it. "I think that's enough righ' abou' now," Rory said in a distinctly less cheerful voice than usual.

Blaine jerked his head, never taking his gaze off Finn, his expression impossible to read from Kurt's angle, before he suddenly turned and stormed off.

Kurt followed without a thought. Glee club drama be damned.


	46. Chapter 46

Running away, again?

Blaine refused to listen to the little voice that took up semi-permanent residence in the back of his head. Usually it went on coffee breaks when he actually needed it and reappeared when he was in the middle of something important that didn't need interruptions.

It was the same voice that had told him that he would never fit in with the Warblers because he was someone who had been defeated by his previous circumstances and unable to rise above them. It was the same cynic that had told him that he was being a fool for chasing after Kurt like this, transferring to William McKinley High School simply for the sake of being with his boyfriend. It was the same critic that would be with him forever through joy and tears and pain, and right then all Blaine wanted to do was lift it by its metaphorical shirt collar and toss it down the nearest ravine.

"Blaine -- Blaine!"

He ignored Kurt's voice as he strode down the hall because he knew that if he focused too long on it, then the voice would have even more fodder for its fire to criticize him with. You're upsetting Kurt, you're being ridiculous, stop acting like such a two-year-old. Finn doesn't understand that he did anything wrong, he's trying to make amends, you should just forgive him.

Like hell he doesn't know what he did wrong, Blaine thought, slamming the door of righteous anger in the silent cynic's face.

He walked until he had reacted the end of the hallway, then he turned and walked down the next hallway, refusing to be moved by the fact that he had just walked out of a class without warning. Schuester might penalize him for it and the rest of the glee club would wonder about his motives, but he could easily recover from those effects. Right then he just needed to get away, away from the fighting -- meaningless, pointless, fruitless fighting that was all centered around him and yet still about other issues entirely -- and find somewhere that didn't include Finn Hudson or Noah Puckerman.

Blaine felt like a fool for having thought himself above what other people would have thought when he had transferred to McKinley. Kurt had warned him that they weren't the warmest crowd and Blaine had flippantly claimed that he could handle it, that he didn't need their warm greetings every morning so long as there was unity in the group. For a time, they could almost fool themselves that there was -- they had been able to win sectionals and regionals, after all, and neither competition had been easy -- but then arguments like that broke out and Blaine just couldn't help himself.

He should have waited, but he couldn't. He couldn't wait for Finn and Puck to take it to blows and resolve it through their own misguided interpretations of what was going on. Finn had wanted to defend Blaine, but he wasn't even seeing Blaine. He had looked right over Blaine's head at Puck, his eyes still narrowed and his expression still locked in a threatening snarl. Without giving the slightest indication that Blaine was there at all, he had tried to settle the argument with Puck. It shouldn't have bothered Blaine as much as it did -- he was used to it; even his best friends occasionally stopped talking to him and just zoned out, looking at some point over him, far away and beyond and better than his company could ever be -- but after all the issues with Sebastian and the continuing problems with Karofsky, he just couldn't listen to Finn try and fight for him anymore when he wouldn't even acknowledge his existence.

"Blaine!" Kurt repeated a third time, his voice slightly thin with breathlessness, and it took Blaine a moment to realize that he had come all the way down to the locker rooms. His arms had wrapped around himself of their own accord as he paced near the end of the room, past the wooden benches in meaningless circles.

"I'm sick of him," he bit out, rage rearing its head and making its usual uncanny appearance as the words poured out of him, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he fought for control. "I'm so tired of him acting like I'm not even there, like I'm just something he can just look over." His left hand lashed out, clipping a locker, and it hurt but it also felt fantastic, finally rattling something that wasn't his own sanity. He gave it another experimental punch after a moment and that stung worse but there was still that resounding clang that made it somewhat worthwhile. He had lifted his fist for a third go when Kurt's fingers captured his wrist nimbly, his movements too quick for Blaine to follow or halt.

"Stop," Kurt whispered.

Blaine should have, he really should have, but the frustration refused to burn, a rot that just kept kindling and dying off periodically, refusing to bleed itself out until the ashes could be swept away. He had known that the passive-aggressive war between him and Finn couldn't continue indefinitely, but the fact that something so -- menial had been the trigger amazed Blaine in a distant, still comprehending corner of his mind.

He didn't stop, however, just ripped his arm away and stalked over to the nearest punching bag, defiantly sinking a fist into it.

"I hate him," he said, his hands literally shaking with rage as he yanked on a pair of black protective gloves quickly. He barely noticed that they were on until he was punching the bag again, and again, and again.

Kurt didn't interrupt him, only making a soft noise of disapproval when Blaine let out a curse of pain when he hit the bag wrong with his left hand. He didn't stop, working through the ache until his knuckles were so sore he barely noticed it. There was a satisfying viciousness to the deed, a cruel indifference that allowed him to vent and rage as long as he needed to without any sort of external repercussions. Yes, his hands hurt, but he was already hurting from too many other things to care. He just kept pounding on the bag until his arms quivered and his hands throbbed with each punch, his whole body wracked with the force of them.

At last when he could no longer summon the energy even to curl his fingers into a proper fist, he dropped both arms to his sides, breathing heavily, sweat matting his hair and stiffening his shirt. He hated the feeling -- it reminded him too much of days when he had slipped away from the prim and properness that was Dalton Academy and found a good place where he could just vent -- but he couldn't do anything about it now. Skip the rest of the school day and there would be talk of his cowardliness by mid-afternoon. Maybe even as soon as lunch, if he was having a particularly rotten week.

Stop it. This isn't Hawthorne.

Breathing raggedly, Blaine sank down onto one of the wooden benches, ripping off one of the gloves and knuckling his forehead. Isn't it?

He had been bullied at both places, loathed half the people there (and been hated in return), and only managed to retain his sanity by immersing himself in unrelated projects. If he had not had things like music and friends like James and Sadie to turn to, he was certain that even two years at Hawthorne would have destroyed his creative spirit. McKinley, whether it knew it or not, was slowly doing the same thing, only this time it was Kurt keeping him sane.

Kurt.

Wincing, Blaine tried to turn his head and apologize, to say something that would make him understand that he hadn't ignored Kurt because he disliked Kurt but because he needed to get the poison out, and the best way was to bleed it out. He couldn't find the willpower, however, his hands dangling limply against the benches, throbbing emptily, struggling for control.

This isn't you. Not anymore. You're better than this. You don't just explode about things like this. You figure them out and work them through and are okay in the end. Why did you freak out so much about this?

The answer came to him with such a sense of clarity that he knew it was true: he didn't want McKinley to become Hawthorne. He didn't want to feel isolated but for one small island of hope. He didn't want to feel hated and ostracized by people that were supposed to be his peers and classmates and potentially friends. There would always be prejudice from some people, but the power of a larger group was meant to combat that, and Blaine had naively believed that as long as he had the glee club's support, he would be invincible to any bullying attempts.

Look how well that's worked.

Shutting the voice out, Blaine rubbed at his forehead. He didn't have many options right then -- staying at McKinley seemed almost counterproductive if it just meant he would be stuck in the same situation that he had been in at Hawthorne -- but what else was he expected to do?

Go back to Dalton.

The voice was different from the first, softer, more appealing, and Blaine couldn't help a twinge of fierce desire that nearly consumed him. Sebastian was out of the picture, and the Warblers needed a leader, and he didn't mind taking the hit that they had lost regionals. He could show them that there were better things beyond competing, that it wasn't always about who held the gavel or who sang the loudest. He could advise them about Parlezvous when she molted or refused to stop singing at five in the morning like Pav always had. He could help them through finals' week with Jeff and Nick and set them on their feet again when they broke down from mental exhaustion. He could acquaint himself with the new people and become a legend again, someone that was looked upon with awe and aspiration instead of hatred and disbelief. He would be Blaine Warbler, the pride of Dalton Academy, the one person that everyone else wanted to be. Barter would be on his side -- he would approve of the transfer without hesitation; he could even ensure that it happened as quickly as possible -- and that would prevent any bullying attempts from occurring.

With Sebastian out of the picture, he could go home.

Blaine clenched his fingers into fists and pressed them against his knees, ignoring the sudden, burning ache behind his eyes. It would be too easy -- painstakingly easy to just tell Principal Figgins that really, he wanted to go back, he just couldn't live at McKinley anymore, not with people like Finn who were supposed to be on his side constantly forgetting the larger issues at hand -- but he knew that he couldn't do it.

He couldn't, because he had committed to McKinley, and he wasn't going to run away again. Not like this, not over Finn, not over any of the stupid, dangerous, terrifying things that had happened since he came to the school. He wouldn't go back because Sebastian was gone. He wouldn't go back because they might need him again.

He wouldn't go back, because he had come to McKinley to stay, through thick and thin, and he had to trust that the Warblers would survive without him.

Looking around the locker room, he realized with a sudden inexplicable chill that it was empty. Whether the knowledge that Kurt had abandoned him ached more or less than the awareness that he couldn't just sign the papers and make the transfer official was impossible to determine. Kurt had never given up on him, and while Blaine logically knew that this wasn't him giving up Blaine as a lost cause, it still hurt tremendously to know that he had left him. Because he couldn't handle Blaine's problems, couldn't handle how much of a screw-up Blaine was anymore.

Forcing himself to his feet with jerky movements, Blaine lifted his hands with a herculean effort and punched the bag again. And again. And again.

It was easier as he continued, his senses almost fuzzy until at last he heard the distinct noise of a door clanging shut somewhere far away. He didn't pause, knowing that his hands were throbbing and probably on the verge of bleeding at this point -- if that sweat-slick liquid really was only sweat -- but also knowing intuitively that if he did, he would forgo his own promises and transfer back to Dalton.

He couldn't take McKinley anymore. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't.

Blaine's right fist fell against the bag limply, coming to rest palm spread against the material, his breath seeming loud and obtrusive in the silence. Not silence, he realized, after mostly catching his breath and turning to face the intruder. Finn was standing there at the end of the row of lockers, looking somewhat amazed and somewhat terrified at the display. Blaine let out a bitter snort of disappointment -- leave me alone, he pleaded silently -- and folded his arms to hide their quivering. He didn't want Finn to see how affected he was by everything, not when they were still fighting, not when it was still impossible to determine whose side Finn was on.

He waited for what seemed like hours for some accusation, some acknowledgment, until at last he realized that Finn wasn't going to say anything.

Closing his eyes briefly, he clenched his hands against his arms, reigning the emotions inward. This is your fault. This is all your fault.

"I'm going back," he said at last, just to see how Finn would react.

Somehow, impossibly, Finn seemed to know that he wasn't simply referring to the choir room or their house -- the Hudson-Hummel house, Blaine amended -- or anywhere else that might have been considered a normal hang-out. Going back meant going back, and even Finn Hudson couldn't mistake the serious tone of his voice. Finn's brow furrowed, his jaw firmed, and for a moment he looked on the verge of actually yelling at Blaine until he caught himself visibly, his voice significantly calmer than Blaine had anticipated when he responded.

"We need you here, dude," was all he said.

Blaine barked a laugh, throwing his arms in the air bitterly. Tried to, anyway; they were so sore at that point that they just flapped uselessly at his sides until he re-positioned them over his chest, his entire posture defensive and alert. "You don't need me, Finn," he retorted, his voice soft and short. "You have plenty of people that can handle the competition."

"We don't want you here just because of the competition," Finn said, sounding surprised that Blaine would come to that conclusion.

"You're right -- from what I've seen, you really don't want me here at all."

Silence. Finn stood assessing Blaine, his expression contemplative, his hands loose and slack at his sides. At last, he said quietly, "I've been treating you like crap, dude, but that doesn't mean I want you gone."

There was something strange about his voice, something delicate and piercing and difficult to comprehend, a wariness that actually made Blaine stagger back a step once he realized what it was.

It wasn't just concern that Blaine would transfer back to Dalton and leave McKinley behind forever. It wasn't even worry that he would leave Kurt behind as well (which would never happen as long, not as he still breathed, Blaine promised fiercely).

It was fear that Blaine would actually consider something drastic to escape the situation. Drastic being synonymous with suicide.

"I'm not -- I'm not going to kill myself," he whispered, suddenly horrified that his actions had given off that impression.

"I watched some of those 'It Gets Better' videos about a month ago," Finn said quietly, staring at Blaine as though he could somehow prevent him from leaving the bizarre security that they had in their own, isolated world below. "Burt sort of got me into them after he realized that I would stop being such an ass to Kurt." He took a cautious step closer and Blaine nearly skittered back, restraining himself with an effort. Finn seemed to relax a little at the reaction, not moving any closer, still six feet of space between them. "I was watching one about this guy who ended up killing himself later on, even though he claimed that he was fine at the time. And I mean, I know that I've been kind of an ass to you -- and Kurt, too -- but . . . I don't want you thinking that way. I mean, you have no idea how bad Kurt's life was before you came into it," he added suddenly, Blaine blinking at the feeling of almost whiplash as he frowned. "I don't even think he knew how bad it was, but I . . . I watched him get tossed in the dumpsters all those times and slushied by Karofsky and Azimio and I even threw pee balloons at him once because some jocks egged me on."

Blaine made a disgusted noise, recalling similar treatment from one of the jocks back at Hawthorne -- some pranks were simply universal, and pee-balloons seemed to fit in that category -- but he didn't interrupt as Finn kept speaking, his voice no different than before but somehow impossible to ignore or dismiss now.

"He just . . . shut down. After a while, it was clear to everyone that he wasn't doing too great, and I wanted to help him out but I was still just a stupid guy back then who only cared about football scholarships and staying on the team. I thought Kurt could take care of himself. I had seen him go through so much more on a regular basis and never even act like it bothered him that it made me think maybe nothing could hurt him.

"I was really wrong, dude. And if you hadn't come into the picture when you did, I don't know where he'd be at, or what we'd all be dealing with here."

The silence was heavy between them, almost suffocating, as the unbearable possibility that Kurt would have been the one seeking more drastic action to relieve his stress crowded into Blaine's mind. He did his best to suppress it, but he had firsthand memories of days when Kurt had driven out to Dalton without so much as a warning phone call to announce his presence. He had told Blaine that Karofsky had kissed him and he had literally been scared out of his mind for what would happen next. Blaine had felt terrible because his advice -- his stupid, naïve advice -- had put Kurt in such a terrible position. It had taken almost two hours of just soothing talk and light touches to the shoulder and warm cups of hot chocolate to calm him down. In the end, Kurt had pulled himself together, but the thought of him facing anything similar without someone he could rush to in the middle of the night was a terrifying prospect.

"I don't want you to feel like Kurt did then," Finn continued. "I don't want you to feel like there's only one other way out if people stop caring. Because honestly, Blaine? I care about you. I care about you and Kurt and everyone else in glee club, because we've been through hell together, and that's something that I'd never done before and still had the same people -- better people around me to support me."

"We haven't been through anything together," Blaine pointed out, his inner cynic making its bid. He decisively censored his next statement -- that even his introduction to the Warblers hadn't gone sportingly and that it had taken him weeks to get fully acclimated to the new group -- and instead focused on not collapsing onto the bench in a shaking heap of exhaustion and misery as Finn spoke.

"Like hell we haven't. All those days when I couldn't think of what to say to Kurt and he went to you instead? Yeah. That was hell for me, and it was only having you around to make sure that he was okay that I kept it together. I mean, I took you for granted, dude. You've always been there, this guy that shows up whenever Kurt needs him and is just always around helping my mom and Burt. You're like . . . family, I guess. And I'm sorry I've been such an ass to you."

There was a long pause, during which Blaine half-thought Finn would clear his throat uncomfortably and say that he hadn't really meant any of it and that deep emotional talks just weren't his thing. But he stayed the same, his face unchanging, his expression unwavering, and with a heavy sigh Blaine realized that he was speaking the truth.

"Why did you ignore me?" he asked, his voice smaller than he would have liked but fitting, he supposed dryly. He was smaller than Finn than he would have liked, and there was nothing he could do to change that, either.

"To be honest? I was kind of jealous of you at first, dude. I mean, you treated Kurt really well and you never seemed to get angry at anyone and you were the lead soloist for a big fancy school that everyone here wouldn't be able to get into, even if they could afford it. I wanted to think that if I didn't say anything you'd just . . . dumb down or something. Be less like this guy who couldn't do anything wrong and more like a person I could actually beat."

"And it had nothing to do with the fact that I was gay?" Blaine added, his tone flatter, his hands clenching slightly around his arms when he saw a flicker of discomfort cross Finn's expression.

"We shouldn't -- I shouldn't have treated it like it was such a bad thing. I live with Kurt, I should kind of be used to this stuff. But it's hard here -- you've only been here for half a year, but most of us have been dealing with slushies and bad names since freshmen year. Kurt's always gonna act however the hell he wants, but I figured if I could just have you . . . tone it down some by ignoring you, maybe you would fit in with us better."

Blaine let out a bitter chuckle, gesturing to himself with one mangled hand. "Look at me, Finn. I'm five-foot-seven. I came from one of Ohio's most notorious prep schools. I stick out like a sore thumb."

"Yeah, but . . . look, it was stupid, okay? I don't know how else to explain it." Finn made a frustrated gesture with one hand, shaking his head. "I just didn't want someone coming in and taking over glee club and proving even more that we were what they always thought of us. As gay. I accept that you and Kurt are, and I'm cool with that--"

Blaine made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat.

"--But it's hard sometimes being a straight dude with a gay stepbrother. I feel bad for you guys having to put up with all the crap from other people, but it's hard just trying to survive high school, let alone convincing the other guys that I like girls when I spend so much time with you and Kurt."

"So you're ashamed that we're gay because we give off the impression that you're gay, too," Blaine surmised, surreptitiously cradling the knuckles on his left hand, trying to relieve some of the soreness without success.

Finn bobbed his head in a slight nod, his expression genuinely apologetic. Blaine glanced away, unable to look at him just then.

"So that was it, then?" he said at last. "Something neither I nor Kurt could control, and you decided that I was your enemy."

"You're not my enemy."

Blaine lifted his eyebrows, folded his arms, and said nothing.

"I don't . . . I don't want us to be like this. Where we can't even look at each other in glee club without fighting. I mean, yeah, it's mostly my fault, but I want to stop. You're important to Kurt. Really important to Kurt. And you're important to the glee club, because in case you haven't looked around, most of us have already broken down at some point but you've just . . . kept at it. You're more well-rounded than we are, because you get when it's better to argue and when it's not. Here you could have argued," he conceded, "but I get that you didn't. And I'm really freakin' sorry, dude, because I messed up with how I acted around you."

Blaine sighed, feeling the cooling sweat against his t-shirt, the aching pains in his hands that made themselves prominent in the absence of chaos. He wanted to find a nice dark space and just curl up until all of the trouble had passed, but he knew that was impossible and that he would only last two minutes before he wanted to be in the midst of the action again. Accepting Finn's words for truth also meant accepting the fact that, in spite of his behavior, he'd learned since then that how he'd been acting was wrong and tried -- unsuccessfully -- to reform. Mentally deciding to change something and actively doing it were two separate things, and seeing Finn now made the latter suddenly apparent.

He wants this to be better.

He doesn't want me to transfer back to Dalton.

Blaine didn't know what to say to that -- any of it -- or the unspoken, insidious implication that he might get away from his troubles through a different outlet if he had no one to turn to.

Breathing deeply, he said at last, "I'm still here, even when you're acting like I'm not, or looking over my shoulder and pretending I'm not."

He could see the way Finn flinched slightly at the words but still nodded, accepting the accusation. "I know. And like I said, I'm really sorry, dude. I just . . . I screwed up. But I want to make it up to you."

"Just . . . don't ignore me, okay?"

The words came out as a soft request, and Blaine could see the way they sliced through Finn's resolve like a hot knife until at last he nodded again, just once.

"Done. And, uh, if I do, you're free to yell at me."

With a huff of a breath that might have been a laugh any other time, Blaine echoed, "Done."

* * *

Kurt paced anxiously in the choir room, wishing that he hadn't chosen to send Finn after Blaine but also knowing that he had no other choice. Finn was the root of the problem, and the only way that anything would be resolved would be if he and Blaine talked it out. Or fought it out, Kurt thought with a wince, toying with the cuff of his sleeve in the uneasy quiet that had descended after Blaine's departure. Mike and Artie were still talking about something in their corner while Rachel and Tina were looking puzzled, tossing questioning looks at each other before glancing over at Kurt for information. Soon enough, the rest of the glee club had caught on that he was the source of information and locked their gazes on him as well.

Resisting the urge to fidget, Kurt just walked in his slow, steady circles, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He could only hope he had done the right thing, because looking at Blaine back there had been something he'd never seen before, an anger, a rage that he had never seen his boyfriend possess, even when Sebastian was being intolerable. (Well, with the exception of the time that he had pulled a knife on him, but never had Kurt seen Blaine look so aggressive without an additional prop to support him.) He had known, from the moment Blaine started punching lockers and then diverted his attention to a punching bag, that he had two options.

Stay and try and calm Blaine down, or find Finn and force him and Blaine to confront the plague festering between them.

Wondering if he had been wrong to do so, if the encounter was going horribly and Blaine was being hurt worse or Finn was just being an ass, Kurt was nearly startled out of his skin when he saw Finn return along, his stomach plummeting precipitously.

What happened? Where's Blaine? Why is it just--?

There was Blaine a moment later, dressed in one of the back-up casual outfits that Kurt knew he kept in his locker after dealing with so many slushy facials. It hurt Kurt to remember those incidents, especially when he thought about how ignorant Finn had been of them, but he forced himself to focus on the issue at hand as Finn cleared his throat and spoke.

"We're . . . we're okay," was all he said.

The rest of the glee club was silent, looking between Finn and Blaine and wordlessly demanding further explanation, but Blaine simply nodded once and walked past Finn, stepping up the tiers carefully and taking his usual seat in the top row. After a moment's consideration, the rest of the New Directions seemed to regain their usual seats as well, including a bit of shoving as seats were improperly claimed. Rory, Kurt noticed, sat on Blaine's left, flanking him, and he saw the small, appreciative smile on Blaine's face at the gesture. Looking over at Mr. Schue, who had been standing by the piano looking helplessly at the proceedings, Kurt shook his head a little to himself as he strode over to the top row and sat down on Blaine's right.

Blaine reached over and casually held out his upturned palm. Kurt wondered what the gesture meant -- normally Blaine wouldn't hesitate to intertwine their fingers -- until he realized that there was a certain hesitance to it, a certain question.

Are we still okay?

Kurt took his hand at once and gave it a gentle but firm squeeze. Absolutely.

* * *

"So, are we still on for shopping on Saturday?"

Blaine let out a groan behind him, planting his face dramatically in the bed covers and refusing to move. Kurt laughed, holding the phone to his ear between his shoulder and cheek as he scribbled a note onto his paper. "Mmhm," he answered, ignoring Blaine's melodramatics. "Eight or nine?"

"Eight?" Blaine echoed incredulously, lifting his head to look at Kurt in stark disbelief.

"Clearly, you have never shopped in Lima once the Christmas season breaks out," Kurt intoned gravely, rolling his eyes as he nodded along to something Mercedes was saying. "Okay. Okay. Yeah, we'll be there. What? No way."

"No way what?" Blaine repeated, scooting over to try and listen in again. "Kurt," he whined, when the latter simply held the phone close enough that there was no feasible way for him to listen to the conversation unless Mercedes started belting out the lines. Which, Kurt supposed dryly, was possible. Blaine seemed flummoxed as he sat back on his heels, looking over Kurt skeptically, before diving in and tickling him.

"You -- absolute -- mongrel," Kurt half-panted, half-shrieked, grateful that Finn was out shoveling the driveway (second time today) and Carole was picking up groceries. Kurt's dad wouldn't be back until six or seven, so they had at least a couple more hours of privacy. Carole had given them the go-ahead to stay in Kurt's room if they wanted although, as per usual, the door remained open. Since Finn was outside anyway, there wasn't much possibility of interruption, so the open door was more for show than actual use.

"Okay, if you two are having sex or something, you just needed to say so," Mercedes said, sounding highly amused.

"No -- no, no, no, no," Kurt repeated, whacking Blaine on the shoulder with his notebook as he squirmed, trying to evade his hands. It had happened accidentally that Blaine now knew every one of his most ticklish spots, mostly because he had determined on his own time (without informing Kurt, naturally) that he would figure them out, since he had sensitive ribs. Kurt, at least, had the class and austerity not to use such a weakness against him, but--

Well, all's fair in love and war.

"Listen, 'Cedes -- stop it -- I gotta go, talktoyousoonloveyou'kaybye!" Kurt snapped the phone shut and launched his counter-attack, leaving himself largely undefended but, to his surprise and delight, Blaine similarly unprotected as well. His fingers danced across Blaine's side with just the right amount of pleasures, elbows tucked in as he tried to protect himself while Blaine did the same.

"Cheater," Blaine huffed good-naturedly as he flopped onto his back in surrender. Kurt eyed him warily for a moment, expecting him to pull him down and start tickling, but he just spread out his arms in an unmistakable I give up gesture.

After one last wary look, still unconvinced that Blaine would give up so easily, Kurt set his phone onto the side table and lay down on his stomach beside him, arms folded and head resting on them.

The quiet was peaceful and almost lulling as Kurt relayed Mercedes' plans for the weekend, including the tidbit that Marcus was out of town visiting relatives and wouldn't be back until Monday (which naturally meant prime time for buying him a present). Kurt had agreed because Mercedes was his friend and, in spite of all the other changes that had been wrought in his life, he still loved shopping. Blaine would come around to the idea, he knew, and if not, Kurt would buy him coffee and let him sulk.

"So what did you and Finn talk about?" he blurted at last.

Kurt nearly froze in surprise, with an effort keeping himself relaxed and seemingly nonchalant, but he could still feel the change that overtook Blaine at the mention of Finn. He was simultaneously more wary and at ease, somehow still uncertain about the affair with also the broad certainty that came with a general solution.

"You, mostly," he admitted, toying with a nonexistent piece of lint on his sleeve.

"Me? Oh, God, please tell me you weren't talking about previous crushes that I had on people."

Blaine chuckled slightly, the raised walls lowering, the tension seeming to recede a little as he draped an arm over Kurt's back casually, the other one cushioning his head.

"We weren't," he assured. "And previous?" he added, feigning indignation as he gave Kurt a light poke in the side. "When did we break up?"

"You know what I meant," Kurt grumbled, rolling his eyes.

A pause, and for a moment Kurt wondered if he had set back the conversation before Blaine said simply, "It . . . I think we finally figured things out. I mean, between us. So . . . ." He shrugged a little. "Maybe things'll be better from now on?"

He posed the last as a question, and Kurt could no sooner have ignored it than stopped breathing, so he sat up a little, looked Blaine in the eye, and assured, "They will. Besides, you promised me magic, so. . . ." He smiled, leaving the sentence hanging.

"Ooh, promised, did I? Well," Blaine said, tugging him over so he was partially lying on top of Blaine, comfortably close, "a Warbler never breaks his promises."

"You made that up," Kurt accused, even as he submitted to and, after a moment, gladly reciprocated the kiss Blaine pulled him into.

 


	47. Chapter 47

"Oh, God, that's scarring," Kurt said, shutting his door quickly when he saw Finn and Rachel sucking face in Finn's room down the hall.

"Love you, too, Kurt!" he heard a loud voice call before Rachel's giggles erupted from behind the door.

"We could go out," Blaine suggested amicably, lying on his stomach on Kurt's bed and scrolling through the pages of one of Kurt's older Vogue magazines with an absent hand.

For the better part of two hours they had been awkwardly barricaded in Kurt's room, doing their best to avoid Finn and Rachel at all costs as it was unofficially 'couples' season' with mistletoe abounding and wine consumption abudantly present. With Kurt's dad and Carole out of town for yet another political meeting (this time to acquaint Kurt's dad with his new role as senator), the four had ransacked the household almost as soon as the couple had left.

Apparently on a vindicative streak for having been denied having his girlfriend over for almost two full weeks (Rachel was terrifying during any sort of stressful time and holidays definitelycounted as stressful), Finn had invited her over as soon as the parents were gone and then proceeded to, well, suck face ever since. Even he and Blaine weren't that bad, Kurt thought huffily, flopping down beside Blaine and wrinkling his nose at the trainwreck of an outfit on the current page he was looking at. "That's hideous," he said, flipping the page and looking at the next set of outfits. He stared at them in vain for several seconds, trying to engross himself in the pictures to distract himself from images of Finn and Rachel making out. Even high fashion just wasn't enough to distract him from the reality, however, and he groaned in despair.

"Ugh, I still can't stop thinking about them," he complained, leaning his head against Blaine's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"We could go out," Blaine offered a second time, turning his head slightly to nuzzle around Kurt's ear. "No one says we have to stay here."

"It's below freezing out and there's a sheet of ice two inches thick accumulating," Kurt retorted with a sigh. "I appreciate the optimism, but unless we want to end up playing Twister with a pine tree, I'd stay we should stay here."

Blaine hummed slightly, acknowledging defeat in that respect but not completely giving up yet. "Would it help if we went downstairs? We could watch a movie or something."

"No," Kurt groaned. "I still can't stop thinking about it."

There was a slight shifting as Blaine resituated himself a little closer to Kurt, pressing side-by-side. "Then don't think about it," he urged softly.

"Blaine, how am I supposed to--" He was cut off as Blaine bit his ear lightly. Kurt let out an undignified yelp as he swatted slightly at Blaine's head in response.

"Now that I have your attention," he said, chuckling slightly as he returned to nuzzling, peppering kisses along Kurt's throat, "we don't have to listen to them, because we can focus on us."

"Oh," Kurt said, feeling stupid for not getting it earlier. It seemed strange that it hadn't already occurred to him -- granted, his dad and Carole had only been gone for three hours but still -- yet the offer was admittedly appealing. "That sounds good."

"Hmm," was all Blaine said, pushing the magazine off onto the floor and turning his full attention to Kurt, who obligingly lay back against the covers, one arm draping lazily over Blaine's back as he continued kissing his neck. Kurt hummed appreciatively, half-wanting to reach up and pull Blaine down for a proper kiss and half-tempted to just stay like this forever. It was warm and comfortable and sweet. Somehow Kurt had always had it stuck in his mind that if he did ever find someone who loved him, it wouldn't be like this: there would be an awkwardness, maybe, because he was such a baby penguin when it came to sex (not that he would admit it) and surely no other guy actually thought fingertips touching or noses brushing was actually intimate.

Kurt's only real references to build his opinions of boys on where people like Finn and Puck, though, so it was no surprise that someone like Blaine would startle him.

"Mmm, c'mere, you," he said at last, dragging Blaine up slightly so that their mouths met and yes, this was definitely better, Kurt's fingers finding hold at the back of Blaine's neck while the latter balanced above him, his arms braced on either side of Kurt's head. "Down," Kurt said, giving him a pointed nudge that made him flop heavily on top of him. Their breath gushed out, Blaine chuckling slightly while Kurt flushed. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"I like this better," Blaine assured, still slightly breathless, before leaning up to kiss Kurt again.

It was better, Kurt thought, and definitely warmer. He and Blaine hadn't tried this before, and it surprised Kurt how much closer everything felt when they were pressed up against each other and doing more than just holding the other. Will we even be able to cuddle again? he wondered. Or is this the new norm?

If so, he wasn't about to start complaining, wrapping his arms around Blaine's back tightly in response.

The pace was languid and unrushed, Blaine doing most of the work as Kurt simply lay back with a pillow tossed underneath his head and no thoughts of Finn nor Rachel whatsoever. "This is nice," he mumbled when Blaine pressed kisses along the side of his jaw. "I feel like I'm making you do all the work, though."

Blaine made a noncommittal noise. "Don't care," he muttered against Kurt's shoulder. "Like this."

Kurt hummed, still doubtful but too peaceful to protest, and simply let Blaine have his way as he carded his fingers through his hair. There was nothing scandalous about it, he thought -- they weren't even shirtless, which was probably more innocent than could be said of Rachel and Finn. (Although Kurt doubted they would ever advance past the stage of sucking face until Rachel was thirty and had a Tony award and an Emmy tucked under her belt.) Wondering how his dad could possibly disapprove of this, Kurt trailed his fingers lightly up and down Blaine's sides, feeling the warm solidarity beneath his hands and smiling. "How're you always so warm?" he asked aloud, musing.

Blaine shrugged a little. "M'not," he answered.

"Yes, you are," Kurt said, amused that he seemed to be more coherent than Blaine, who seemed to have lulled himself into a stupor, mouthing at Kurt's neck absentmindedly. "And despite your atrocious food preferences, you're still so . . . fit," he added, letting his fingers dance on Blaine's ribs. "How do you explain that one, hmm?"

"Hmm," Blaine echoed, leaning forward to press a kiss to Kurt's lips. It was more insistent than before, less exploratory and more determined. Kurt smiled briefly against him before reciprocating, gladly tangling his fingers in Blaine's hair. Blaine smelled wonderful and tasted even better, and within moments Kurt found himself wishing that he had enough will power to sit up and push Blaine back, to nuzzle his neck and make him feel just as loved and wanted and appreciated as he had made Kurt feel.

"I love you," he whispered softly, pulling away just enough to whisper it against his cheek.

"Mmm," Blaine hummed. "Loveyoutoo."

* * *

Kurt didn't remember falling asleep, just remembered tangling up with Blaine until they were wrapped so tightly around each other he barely noticed the cold. Of course, somewhere in the process Blaine had rolled away slightly and sprawled, one arm draped over Kurt's waist while his other limbs stretched, his face planted in a pillow. Smiling sleepily at him, Kurt looked around and blinked in confusion at the warm light, squinting at the clock. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, he realized, a loud crack of thunder making him jolt slightly a moment later. That would explain why he had woken up, then. Sliding carefully over to where his lamp was still lit, Kurt flicked it off after several failed attempts to find the switch, humming in contentment as he slid down to rest against Blaine's side again, casually tugging his arm so it was wrapped around him again.

"Loveyou," Blaine mumbled, half-asleep, already snoring lightly on the next breath. Kurt laughed slightly, kissing the side of his head, and closed his own eyes, not bothering with his skin care regimen.

Perhaps he should have, he thought, as he opened his eyes a moment later and grimaced at himself in the mirror. He looked away. It was early morning and he didn't have time to fix the damage from the previous night, so he simply sighed and hoped that it wouldn't be too terrible in the eyes of the inexperienced masses at McKinley.

"Kurt? Come on, kiddo, truck's leaving."

"I'm coming!" Kurt called back, knowing that his dad would only be willing to drive him if he kept his morning routine to a minimum. He already missed his poor neglected Navigator -- his dad had grounded him from using it after some non-event that Kurt couldn't even remember right then -- but he knew that he would just have to grit his teeth and endure for the moment. He was Kurt Hummel -- he could survive losing his baby for a week, even if the process created separation anxiety that could not be good for his skin. Literally or metaphorically.

He hurried down the steps, absently noticing that Finn's room was empty -- he must have been sleeping over at Puck's, probably after spending the entire night wasting his mind away on video games -- but he was more concerned when he saw his dad pressing an ice pack to his wrist as he sat at the kitchen table. "What happened?" he asked, picking up a piece of toast his dad had left for him on a plate.

"Sprained it," his dad said, offering an affectionate huff as he shook his head at it. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Kurt said, crunching down the toast quickly as he took his black satchel off the kitchen chair and slung it over a shoulder. There was never a day he was ready for at William McKinley high school, but on most occasions he could grit his teeth and bear it regardless.

It was freezing outside, a fresh layer of snow coating the ground. Kurt walked over to his dad's truck and, after one glance at his dad's wrist, hopped into the front seat. His dad cast him a look that said -- I could have driven -- before passing him the keys with a submissive sigh. Kurt shook his head slightly at his antics and turned on the ignition.

The next thing he knew he was blinking sluggishly in the too-bright reflection from the snow, the sound of the car wheezing and airbags hissing surrounding him. His left leg ached with pain, his head stinging and his arm throbbing, all phantom aches that didn't seem quite real but terrifyingly so as he looked around him. He could barely see anything besides bark and the crumpled remains of a door, shattered glass and a crumpled dashboard. He looked over and let out a noiseless wail of surprise and horror at the sight of his dad, limp and clearly lifeless, a head wound the clear culprit.

"Dad," he whimpered, childishly, unable to help himself as he reached over with a tentative hand to shake his shoulder. He had to wake up. He had to. He had to wish Kurt off to another terrible day at school with that too cheerful smile and too optimistic demeanor. He just -- he had to--

"Kurt?" a new voice said, and suddenly he was being lifted and he cried out, trying to scrabble back to the wreckage that held his dad, his dad.

"Oh, Kurt," his mom said, her voice soft and sweet and so, so sad. "Kurt, sweetie, I'm so sorry."

He awoke sobbing, literally clutching his stomach and gasping for breathing as the tearless whimpers escaped him. Somehow he had moved from lying on his side next to Blaine to sitting upright, Blaine next to him and rubbing his back, murmuring soothingly in a hoarse, sleep-roughened voice that sounded like he had just been woken up. Kurt wrapped his arms tightly around himself, doing his best to stop the irrational pains, the agonizing knowingness that his dad had never died in a car accident but his mom had and God, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

He turned and flung himself at Blaine, who somehow caught him and held him as he shook and tried to get his own emotions under control. Kurt buried his face in Blaine's shoulder and breathed raggedly, feeling the fatigue radiating off Blaine in waves. In some vaguely rational corner of his mind he remembered Blaine mentioning that once he fell asleep, he was out until the morning, usually so much so that he was practically drunk on it. Half-wanting to scream at him in frustration, anything to relieve his excess feelings, Kurt just gripped him hard instead, hearing Blaine let out a slightly wheezing breath when he squeezed too hard. He didn't care, unable to bring himself out of the nightmare, the reality that his dad was okay but his mom would never be, never again. She was gone, gone forever, and it was so stupid to be crying about it now when he had gotten over it almost ten years ago but he couldn't help himself.

At last he calmed down enough to lay down, Blaine wrapped around him like some overlarge blanket, literally draped overtop him as Kurt focused on his weight and warmth instead of the nightmare. "Shh, shh," he muttered inanely, Kurt's breath still stuttering a little but otherwise under control. "Shhhh."

Another rattling roll of thunder made Kurt jerk a little, wondering bitterly if that had triggered the nightmare -- he could vaguely remember it storming the next week after his mom had died, as though nature itself resented what had happened. Tucking himself as close to Blaine as he could and breathing deeply, Kurt slowly relaxed as Blaine hummed in vague reassurance, unperturbed and calm. It settled Kurt, just knowing that someone else was around and so relaxed, and soon he was drifting off once more, his eyes fluttering shut and his breath evening out with his awareness.

He blinked twice, frowning slightly in confusion as he stood in the middle of the choir room. "What happened?" he asked Rachel, who was speaking rapidly with Tina in the center of the room. She looked up at Kurt and rolled her eyes, grabbing his arm and telling him something in the same too-fast voice, impossible to discern any words. "Rach -- Rachel, slow down," he urged.

"Come on, we're going to be late," she said, tugging him along until they were both standing in the auditorium. It was dark, the seats empty until abruptly the spotlights flared, illuminating the entire scene brilliantly. "Kurt, places," she hissed, shoving him towards the far side of the otherwise empty stage. Kurt looked around in bafflement as other people formed, all looking at different points, struck in poses of vibrant anticipation. Wondering what was going on, Kurt couldn't help but admire the scenery around him, the exquisite detail put into the set and the loud, murmuring crowd that had fallen into hushed silence before them.

Suddenly there was music, and the movements and flow of the performance seemed to pass him by in an indeterminable space where he was simply a part of the scene around him, moving and flowing with the same invisible tide that guided them all. It was natural, as easy as breathing to slip into the patterns and follow the dances. He found himself grinning madly even as his professional side chastised him to keep the same show-face expression he had slipped into like the rest. He knew that, when he was really into a performance, he couldn't help himself with how much he expressed himself.

It was so riveting, to be a part of something this huge, this spectacular, as though it wasn't merely a group of twenty or so people but a thousand, countless, timeless. He sang the notes that slipped away from memory as soon as they became real, the steps disappearing from the great weave before him as soon as he moved through them. It was like he was on a crumbling road where only the sights before him still existed and those behind disappeared the moment his feet left the ground. He certainly felt like he was floating, gliding through the movements with ease.

It grew and grew and grew until suddenly they had reached the highest point and tumbled over, all collapsing into a beautiful, chaotic sprawl of sound and motion. Kurt relished the final notes as they poured from him, as the crowd rose to its feet as one thunderous mass, roaring its approval, his arms outstretched as he came to the final pace. He could see Rachel closer to the front breaming broadly at their invisible audience, her arms somehow stretched even farther than his, embracing the crowd, the spirit. It wasn't until Kurt zeroed his vision in on her back, deliberately tearing his gaze away from the crowd, that he saw the tiny NYADA printed in bright red letters on the corner of her jacket.

The scene faded away from him even as he made a half-desperate noise, trying to memorize faces as he looked around him, trying to remember anything for future reference, the notes, the music, even the sensation of accepting an undeniable standing ovation.

Soon enough, however, the shadows had vanished as soon as they came, leaving him standing alone in the center of the McKinley high stage, looking around the empty auditorium in dismay and dejection. It looked exactly as it had countless other times, with its darkened seats and unlit props adding to the unused atmosphere. There were only traces of beauty here, little spurts of anticipation and potential wreathed around the overall gloom. Kurt took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the moment, the beauty that had been before him so soon before.

He blinked his eyes open when he heard feet land lightly on the floor, looking over to see a shadowy figure materializing, slowly, twirling through motions on its own in some undefined dance. The shadow came to timed halts after a series of turned and glides, always shaking its head in vacant frustration before returning to its starting point and beginning the steps anew. Soon the outfit was almost visible, a striped black-and-white shirt coming into being even as Kurt squinted at it, and at last he recognized Blaine, or rather, a shadow of Blaine, as he continued to slide through the motions.

And, knowing that it was Blaine, Kurt was able to see what he was performing -- one of the moves that Tony did during one of the dance numbers in the musical. Kurt frowned slightly at the thought -- Blaine was clearly agonizing over this, his frustrated expression visible even from the slight distance separating him -- but he couldn't find his voice to say anything even as Blaine reset himself and began the process anew.

Four, five, six more times he started over, cursing suddenly and digging his hands into his hair as he stopped after the final lunge. He was practically shaking with exhaustion, and Kurt wondered how long he had been going over this, painstakingly reviewing a scene that, as far as Kurt's fantastic memory could supply, was already perfect.

"You were amazing on that stage tonight," he whispered, wishing Blaine could hear it even as he loosened his hold on his hair and sighed, resetting himself after a weary march. "I was so proud to be with you."

He watched Blaine do the moves over and over again as he faded, his form losing its tangibility just as slowly as it had appeared. At last, there was only a wisp of a figure leaping determinedly through the steps, forever determined to perfect, perfect, perfect.

Kurt awoke a second time that night to Blaine snoring lightly near his face, cuddled close enough that Kurt could hear his heart beat next to his ear and feel each of his breaths rising and falling slowly. It was a slight comfort knowing that he was asleep and not laboriously trying to perfect the lunge-and-glide movements that he had been in the auditorium at McKinley. What had prompted his dream counterpart to do so, Kurt didn't know, but as he trailed his fingers gently across the back of Blaine's neck, silently reaffirming to himself that he was there, he decided that he would make a point of congratulating Blaine on how amazingly he had done as his role as Tony.

Peering sleepily over at his clock sitting on the night stand, Kurt saw that it was quarter after four, still far too early to consider waking. Snuggling closer to Blaine, he curled his fingers into his shirt, keeping him there.

You were perfect, Blaine, he whispered silently, wishing that the dream Blaine -- and the real Blaine -- could hear it. You're absolutely perfect to me.

* * *

"So . . . do you think we should go with the red scarf," Kurt asked, draping said-item around Blaine's neck demonstratively, "--or the maroon scarf? I'm personally more fond of the red, although on you I like the maroon better. . . . What do you think?"

"I think whatever you think sounds fantastic," Blaine said, yawning and cupping a hand over his mouth belatedly. "Are you sure we had to get up at seven for this? Couldn't we have waited until noon like normal people?"

"I am not a normal person," Kurt said loftily, tugging slightly on the scarf. "Focus. Red or maroon?"

"Kurt," Blaine whined, "I already told you, I'm not a good fashion consultant. Haven't you noticed that I spent two years wearing the same uniform?"

"You didn't wear it on weekends," Kurt reminded primly, "or during the summer."

"Those are different," Blaine grumbled, swatting a hand as Kurt gave the scarf another tug. "You just like bossing me around."

"And if I do?" Kurt asked cheekily.

Blaine swatted at his head.

"All right, all right." He tugged out his phone, dialing a number faster than Blaine could have even found the unlock button and holding it up to his ear. "'Cedes, where are you?" he asked a moment later. "Mmhmm. Okay. See you soon. Bye. There," he added, holding the marroon scarf up to the red one for comparison. "Now you don't have to be the consultant. But I still expect you to stand there and help me figure this out."

"Can we at least pick up a coffee first or something? I'm not meant to function on this little caffeine . . . ."

"You're such a toddler sometimes," Kurt sighed, fond exasperation plain in his voice as he tugged the scarf off his neck and tossed him a five. "Now scramble and be back in twenty. Text me if you get lost."

Blaine blinked at the money before smiling slightly and turning around, adding belatedly, "And I won't get lost," as he walked out.

Kurt shook his head after him, glancing between the scarves before decisively tossing the maroon one into the stack.

"So, boo, where's the other white boy?" Mercedes asked three minutes later, a pair of bags draped over her arms. "I found a great jacket for Marcus, by the way. And a football, since he seems to be into that sort of thing." She rolled her eyes to show how much she thought of that before turning to look at the items Kurt had gathered together. "That for the charity event?"

"Mmhm. But you know this is one of the few times I'm able to get away from Blaine without him noticing, so I'm going to make this quick: I need your help."

"With what?" Mercedes asked, blinking in surprise. "I thought you were Kurt Hummel, shopper extraordinaire.

"Well, normally I am," Kurt said, nervously smoothing the cuff of his sleeve. "But this is the first Christmas that Blaine and I have been together as boyfriends and I really want to make it special."

"Then make it special," Mercedes said, grinning as she tugged his hand away from his sleeve so he wouldn't further rumple the coat. He was grateful for that -- it was a rather expensive jacket, and he wasn't quite willing to part with it over nervous fluttering -- but he couldn't help still feeling hopelessly lost when it came to what to give Blaine for Christmas. His rational side said that Blaine was a puppy and would literally be overjoyed at any gift Kurt gave him. He could give him a gum wrapper and Blaine would still find a way to tell him how thoughtful and sweet it was. He didn't want to go too extravagant, either, because then Blaine modestly insisted that he didn't deserve stuff that nice (even though his ass totally looked better in the jeans Kurt bought for him than he bought for himself; it had to be said). Mercedes was in a similar position, but she didn't seem nearly as worried about what to buy Marcus as he seemed about Blaine.

Of course, Kurt thought, somewhat sulkily. Everyone else plans for temporary relationships, whereas I can't help being unrealistically hopeful that this will actually last beyond high school.

"Earth to Kurt? You still with me?"

Kurt blinked, then nodded, looking at Mercedes apologetically. "Sorry. I just . . . I don't know what to do," he said helplessly. "I mean, last Christmas it wasn't a problem because we were just friends and yes I was crushing on him but that's a lot different than actually dating him."

"Okay, first off, deep breaths, boo. I don't want you to freak out on me here, because I'm guessing Blaine's just on a coffee break and will be back shortly?" When Kurt nodded affirmation, she continued, her voice still steady and soothing in its confidence. "Then don't worry about it for now. Come by my house in three days -- I'll get Berry to keep your beau busy for the day, she'll find some house project she needs help with that only hobbits can do -- and we'll talk then. Okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said, feeling some of his tension relax at the prospect. He grimaced slightly at the thought of leaving Blaine with Rachel all day, but maybe they could bond or something. It would certainly be worthwhile to see how Finn reacted if Blaine could actually stand to be around her for more than two hours at a time (which, Kurt thought, was definitely possibly, if only because Blaine was too polite to turn people down without substantial reasons).

They switched over easily to discussion of the charity event outfits for the glee club, Blaine returning five minutes later with two coffees in hand and a grin. "Keep the change," he told Kurt, smiling, as he pressed him the coffee and the five. "Hey, Mercedes," he added, smiling at Mercedes, looking somewhat more alive after his coffee.

"You know my coffee order?" Kurt asked in mock surprise as he sipped at the coffee.

Blaine rolled his eyes and nudged his shoulder with his own, saying solemnly, "You're surprised?"

"You boys are going to give me cavities," Mercedes piped in. "At least Marcus shoots zombies in his free time. You two just cuddle and act mushy."

"We're not mushy," Kurt put in, scoffing in mock haughtiness as he gathered up the supplies and walked over to the register. "Your boorish boyfriend just can't understand high culture."

"Oh, boorish now, is he?" Mercedes asked, planting her hands on her hips in a way that would have alarmed Kurt if he didn't know any better. "You should have seen him at Thanksgiving. That boy devouredhalf the turkey, and then still managed to throw the pumpkin the farthest in our annual pumpkin-tossing contest."

"Pumpkin-tossing contest?" Blaine asked, interested, before Kurt linked arms firmly with him to pull him away.

"Don't," he warned. "You'll never hear the end of it. And before you ask, absolutely not."

Blaine pouted, watching sulkily as Kurt took the bags from the cashier and hooked them casually over Blaine's arm. He accepted them with a slight sigh, accusing, "You just bring me along to carry the bags, don't you?"

"Someone's got to do it, and that someone isn't wearing the expensive jacket," Kurt sing-songed, ruffling his hair slightly as he linked arms with Mercedes. "And now, we shop for the rest of the family," he said with a grin, Blaine trailing after them sulkily.

"At least there's only three of you," he grumbled.

"That's cute," Mercedes said, laughing, "he still thinks 'family' doesn't include the glee club."

Blaine's groan was answer enough as Kurt laughed, too, happier than he had been in a long time without Sebastian threatening him and sulking boyfriend in tow.

"You know, you guys have some strange customs 'ere in America," Rory said, blinking as he unraveled strand after strand of tinsel. "What is this stuff, anyway? Some sort of lighting?"

"That's tinsel," Kurt corrected, reaching over to help Artie with the lights. Puck, Finn, and Mike had already tackled the first tree, bringing it inside the choir room and causing several hundred pine needles to scatter on the floor the moment they set it down. While Mercedes walked around sweeping up the extra pieces, Kurt had been draping the lights around the tree, carefully winding them into place. "You put it around the tree to make it look nicer," he added, when Rory continued to stare blankly at the silvery material in his hands.

"This is one strange country," he remarked, shaking his head as he dropped it back into the bunch. Then, looking at his arms in apparent dismay at the traces of glittery silver still stuck to his sweater, he asked, "I'm not going to mutate from it or something, am I? Because I'm not sure I can rock the whole sparkly look. I'm no Edward Cullen."

"Oh, trust me, he couldn't rock it either," Kurt assured dryly, "and no, it's not radioactive, so you won't mutate."

"Well, that's a relief," Rory said, looking over at the choir room door as the boys returned with the second tree. "How come we've got two trees this year, anyway? I thought there was only supposed to be one."

"One's for the glee club," Kurt said, nodding, "the other's for the homeless shelter down the road."

"They don't have a Christmas tree?" Rory asked, blinking.

Kurt shook his head. "Not with presents, anyway. We're going to surprise them this year with a donation right before Christmas break. And thanks to my sway with Figgins as the class president, I've already gotten him to promise not to allow any of the teachers to throw shoes at us."

Rory looked slightly green at the thought, glancing down at his own shoes worriedly as though someone would steal them and try to pelt him with them, before a fourth figure appeared in the door, carrying a large box that jingled with every step.

"No way, yo," Artie said, while Blaine dropped off the box of bells near the floor next to them.

"Just following Schuester's orders," he said simply, shrugging and brushing off his sleeves where the box had ruffled his cardigan. "Oh, and there's still three more boxes of tinsel out there," he added.

"What on earth does Mr. Schue have in mind for four boxes of tinsel?" Kurt asked, frowning as he finished unraveling the string of lights near the top of the tree.

Blaine shrugged, smiling slightly as he looked over at the second tree, before walking back towards the door. "Rory, you mind helping me with the rest?" he added.

The Irish boy hopped gratefully down from his seat in the top tier with the box of tinsel, seemingly grateful for any reason not to have to sit near the substance any longer. "The hell's Mr. Schuester think we're going to do with these?" Artie asked, pointing at the bells.

Kurt looked at them and shuddered, shaking his head. "I don't know, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to find out, either."

* * *

"Well, if it isn't the merry little hobbit and his Irish wannabe," Santana said as Blaine walked back into the gymnasium where the glee club's Christmas gear had been unloaded. "Aren't you two just an adorable couple?"

"Oi, if you're gonna be mean to us, at least help with the carryin'," Rory said, lifting one of the larger boxes of tinsel.

"Oh, I'm not being mean to you," Santana said in a mock sweet voice, taking the next largest box before Blaine could grab it. "I just don't want this school's mythical creatures breaking their poor little backs over such menial labor."

"Well, that's nice of you to look out for us," Blaine said, making a disgruntled noise when another cheerleader walked over and picked up the last box of tinsel without letting him grab it. The rest of the Cheerios had already started carting away the other boxes towards the choir room, leaving Blaine empty-handed. "But we can handle it."

"I'm not sure you can," Santana said, shaking her head.

Blaine scowled at her, halting midway back to the doors of the gymnasium. Santana, sensing his intent, handed off her box to a cheerleader who seemed to materialize from thin air, appearing at the doors and walking off with Rory, who cast one last uncertain look at Blaine before following.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice less angry than he had thought it would be when he opened his mouth.

"Whatever do you mean?" Santana replied in a mock innocent tone.

Blaine stepped over to her until there was less than two feet of space between them, looking seriously at her. "What's going on?" he repeated simply, not caring that he was in perfect range for a knee-to-groin attack if she wanted. At least he could anticipate it and maybe dodge if necessary, although he doubted the latter would be possible if she decided the action was necessary.

Santana waited until the last of the Cheerios had vanished from the gym, her gaze lingering for several long moments on the empty space before she turned her gaze back to his and met it fiercely. "You stood up for Karofsky," she said at last.

"No," Blaine corrected, frowning, "Kurt did. He's the one who got Principal Figgins to only suspend him for a week."

Santana took another step closer and now Blaine wished that he had the resolve to step back because she certainly looked threatening from that angle. "No, you were the one who urged twinkletoes to stand up for him," she retorted.

"If you're just going to call us names, then I don't want to talk to you," Blaine said seriously, folding his arms.

"This isn't a half-assed job," she quipped, startling Blaine with the unexpectedness of it. "Karofsky won't take it lightly if you try and act all noble and heroic and then leave him out in the dumps to wither away. You can't just take this on and then leave it like yesterday's chef's surprise."

Blaine regarded her in silence for several moments, wondering how it had ever come to be that he was arguing with Santana Lopez about his involvement with David Karofsky's welfare before he shook his head slightly. "You know, if you stopped acting like a jerk to us all the time, maybe Kurt and I could be there for you, too," he said at last.

Santana's gaze was opaque, startlingly so in the dim gymnasium lighting. Since it wasn't an official period right then there were only half the lights on, giving only partial illumination to the objects.

"Listen," she said at last, crowding close so he had no choice but to or walk away, "you saved Britt's life, and that means a hell of a lot more to me than it ever will to you. Don't say anything," she added when Blaine opened his mouth. "Now, Karofsky and I had a thing going on last year and we were almost prom queen and king. Of course, since I'm a lesbo and everything we weren't picked together."

"Don't call yourself that," Blaine said in a low voice.

"You know how Hummel was all upset about it," Santana went on, ignoring him, "but I know how Karofsky was upset, and how much it ripped him apart knowing that people thought that he was gay. And now that people do now -- the hockey jocks, the football players -- he needs people like you and me to support him."

Blaine blinked at the insinuation that they were on the same side on this issue despite the glaring rift between them, an impassable chasm that seemed to keep Santana and him on firmly opposite polar ends. "So they all know?" he said at last.

Santana laughed, sharply, like glass cracking. "Of course they do, hobbit. Haven't you heard the way they talk about him? When you're not staring at Hummel, try looking his way for once."

"I'm trying," Blaine said, frustrated, before gesturing at his left eye. "Clearly I'm not against him, or I could've gotten him suspended a lot longer for this."

Santana stared at it, stared right past his eye and purely at the mark, and Blaine shivered slightly under the scrutiny. At last she just looked him right in the eyes and said, very clearly, "Dave needs us. Both of us. We have to stick together in this or he's going to flip his shit and do worse than give you a black eye."

"Are you saying he's going to attack me?" Blaine asked, his blood going briefly cold at the thought.

Santana shook her head slightly, seeming amazed at his inability to put two and two together. "No. I'm saying he's going to attack himself. And I know you don't care about him, but you didn't have to care about Britt, either, and you didn't have to care about him earlier, either, but now you have and you can't walk away from that, or so help me I will cut off your balls."

Grimacing at the thought, knowing that Santana was being one hundred percent truthful -- there was no way he could look at her and not see the fierce honesty to the statement -- he nodded slightly. "I'll . . . keep an eye on him. Or talk to him. Or something."

Santana scrutinized him for a moment longer before nodding once, putting on an almost sickeningly dry smile as she patted his cheek once, too fondly for the seriousness of the conversation. "See, hobbit? You're learning. Just listen to Auntie Tana and everyone's happy."

A few Cheerios re-entered the gymnasium then and Santana sauntered off, casually disappearing in their midst while Blaine stayed in the same place, half-surprised, half-frozen.

Well, he thought at last, walking warily towards the doors and breathing a sigh of relief once he was back in the well-lit hallways of McKinley, at least someone's looking after Karofsky.

Still, Santana's adamancy was frightening, and Blaine decided as he made his way back to the choir room that he would keep a definite eye out for anything out of the ordinary regarding him. He didn't want to unnecessarily push Karofsky into a friendship or something, but knowing that he needed at least someone to care about his dilemma meant Blaine couldn't ignore it entirely.

This just keeps getting more and more interesting, Blaine thought musingly, shaking his head slightly to himself as he walked. I wonder what's next?


	48. Chapter 48

"Hey, where's Blaine?" Artie asked, rolling up beside Kurt with an armful of papers. "Emergency glee club meeting -- we need you both."

Kurt eyed the papers skeptically, wondering how many of those were waivers, before shaking his head slightly as he shut his locker door. "Please tell me we're not caroling."

"Only for the homeless people," Artie assured, grinning. "Besides, they don't want to risk throwing shoes and food at us, so we should be in pretty good shape."

"Until they figure out they can pelt us with all of their rotten food," Kurt interjected dryly, sighing. "And I haven't seen Blaine yet, but I'll let him know."

"Great. Meeting's in ten. Be there!" With that, Artie wheeled off, looking determined, one arm supporting the stack of papers while the other controlled the wheels. Sighing slightly, knowing what was to come -- some form of humiliation, at any rate, since they were never able to get through any sort of benefit concert (however formal or informal) without it -- he readjusted his books in his arms and set off down the hallway towards Blaine's locker. It had surprised him when he realized that Blaine had left before he was even awake that morning (a mean feat, considering Kurt was up at six AM on a regular basis), but he knew that Blaine was at school after sending him a curious text asking him why he was in such a hurry. Therefore he wasn't alarmed as he rounded the corners in search of his boyfriend, one arm cradling his books protectively against unwary passerby. There was no telling what McKinley students would do to his notes if he left them open for the taking, so he walked briskly down the halls, not sparing a second glance at the hockey jocks congregated in the corner or the lacrosse players a little ways down.

"Hey, Hummel!" one called after him, only to be interrupted by a fierce growling noise that Kurt supposed had a threat mixed in somewhere but was largely indefinable. Grateful that Mercedes was dating the Hulk, Kurt kept up his pace without giving any indication that he was alarmed by the lacrosse player's unspoken threat, even though he was admittedly a little wary about trying to push the tolerance limits between them. Glee clubbers and jocks did not mix well on a general basis, Finn, Puck, Mike, and Marcus being the notable exceptions. The rest of the school seemed to have its caste system firmly in place, and knowing that he could resort to his class presidential power to resolve any major disputes was a comfort to him. At least they wouldn't have to deal with outright bullying anymore; not if Kurt Hummel could have any say about it.

Kurt was surprised to see Blaine was standing with Karofsky, the latter looking both haunted and defensive. His arms were folded, his plaid shirt a sharp contrast to his usual letterman's jackets. His gaze was focused intently on Blaine as he explained something, gesticulating frequently and seeming to keep their conversation walled in to just the two of them. None of the nearby students paid them further notice than a cursory glance, at any rate, and Kurt saw that most were avoiding them conspicuously as they walked. The flow had curbed slightly, just enough that there was a clear division between Dave Karofsky's back and the rest of the student body. Kurt's gaze zeroed in on the upper part of Karofsky's back, noticing a dark blue-tinted stain there and feeling his stomach lurch precipitously.

Someone slushied him.

It was clear, now that he was looking, from the slightly damp hair and the spooked look, a horse that had been whipped for the first time. He was still fiercely determined to ignore the incident and seemed to be giving no acknowledgment of the poor clean-up job he had done (Kurt could clean slushy out of his hair and clothes so well now that he could almost fool himself that nothing had happened), even when a bit of ice rested on his shoulder. He just watched Blaine speaking, his eyes flat and emotionless, his hands fidgeting with each other, barely perceptible.

"What's going on?" Kurt asked, approaching cautiously, not wanting to be clipped by a fist if Karofsky decided to skip introductions and go straight for violence. Every line in Karofsky's shoulders and back tensed, making him suddenly appear statuesque, frozen, but Blaine simply tossed him a weary smile and gestured him over with a hand. Kurt edged in, noticing the way Karofsky infinitesimally stepped aside.

"Listen, if you can trust me, you can trust Kurt," Blaine said, sounding exhausted, when Karofsky continued to look skeptical.

Karofsky looked at Kurt suddenly, his gaze seeming to slice and then bore into him, trying to determine why Kurt of all people would be interested at all in his former tormentor's affairs. Kurt shivered a little, hoping it was imperceptible, and leaned just slightly against Blaine's shoulder, suddenly wishing that Karofsky would just walk away and not need their involvement any more. Blaine's involvement, Kurt amended, since Karofsky hadn't exactly sought out him for advice. How he had latched onto Blaine as a -- mentor figure, Kurt supposed, although he hated to make the analogy after Blaine had already mentored and befriended him -- support system baffled Kurt. What was, was, though, and he had no choice but to accept it or flee, and with Karofsky looking at him like he was dangerously close to telling Kurt to leave or leaving himself, Kurt was admittedly tempted by the latter.

At last, Karofsky just tossed one anxious glance over his shoulder before gripping his arms more tightly, seeming to bite back whatever he wanted to say as he nodded. "Fine," he quipped. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the mold of students that had rejected him earlier but now, after a slight, visible pause, accepted him back in their midst without deviating from his path. Kurt didn't stop leaning against Blaine, just slightly, needing to know that there was someone else there, someone who understood what was going on and, according to his conversation, already had a plan for how to resolve it. Blaine always had a plan, even if it wasn't the best, and Kurt was there for fine-tuning them, not eliminating them entirely. Grateful that one of them had a solution, considering how out of his depth Kurt felt, Kurt startled when Blaine moved away slightly, just a shifting that meant Kurt was standing on his own once more.

Looking at him, puzzled, Kurt noticed just how exhausted he looked, the beginnings of dark shadows under his eyes and a very faint off-coloring to his skin tone that made him look almost ashen compared to his usual cheerful demeanor. He still managed a smile when Kurt looked, but it was clearly exhausted.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked.

"Fine," Blaine said, yawning behind a hand. "Just tired."

He didn't look just tired, though, because Kurt knew what just tired looked like and this was more. Blaine, seeming to sense his lack of conviction, quickly turned the topic to the glee club, saying he had heard Rory saying something about it that morning in passing. Although still unconvinced that Blaine was feeling any less miserable than before, Kurt contributed to the conversation and soon commandeered it, explaining how in previous years the glee club had handled Christmas traditions and the consequent responses of the student and faculty bodies. Soon they were sitting in the choir room, chatting amiably (well, Kurt was chatting and Blaine was listening, nodding his head and seeming just slightly less focused than usual), when the rest of the glee club filed in, Artie bringing up the rear with Mr. Schue.

"Great news, guys," Mr. Schue said. "We're visiting the homeless shelter on the twenty-third to help bring some Christmas cheer to the kids. You won't believe who arranged it--"

"Why, of course they will, William," Coach Sylvester said, stepping into the room. "What better way to spread Christmas cheer than to have a delightful bunch of misfits visit equally disadvantaged children in a homeless shelter?"

"Sue, I thought we already discussed this," Mr. Schue said, sounding highly agitated. "You set up the plans and I was going to explain--"

"I am taking charge of this mission," Coach Sylvester interrupted in a no-nonsense tone. "You will obey me, William, or I will see to it that your budget is spliced next year."

"You can't do that--" Mr. Schue protested.

"Watch me."

Looking exasperated, Mr. Schue waved a hand and stood beside the piano, clearly giving Coach Sylvester control of the conversation. "All right, ladies, lady boys," she said. "We have approximately three weeks to create magic."

She outlined the preparations that would have to be made, from informing the homeless shelter faculty to designing a setlist (that she would review and ruthlessly edit, of course). The glee club broke out into periodic arguments at the mention of particularly outrageous suggestions -- mostly in the name of raising money for the organization -- until at last they seemed to reach a mutual consensus that they would carol outside of McKinley rather than within its bounds. An alternative fundraising method for McKinley itself would be found upon a later basis but, since Coach Sylvester had to go whip her Cheerios into shape, she had to leave them with a simple admonition to come up with at least thirty ideas before she returned.

How are we supposed to think of thirty? Kurt thought, before glancing over at Rachel, who was already scribbling down something frantically in her notebook. Of course.

"All right," Mr. Schue said, sounding miffed that he had lost control of the conversation. "Let's warm up those vocal chords. Anyone have a suggestion?"

"Finn, don't even start," Kurt said at once as the latter opened his mouth. Finn sulkily sank back down into his seat, Rachel still writing frantically beside him.

"I have one," Santana said suddenly, startling them. Kurt blinked at her in surprise as she stood, sidling to the front of the room and looking at them all with dispassionate eyes. "Enjoy," she added sweetly, turning to Brad and nodding once. The latter pulled out a sheet of music and set it on the rack in front of his piano, familiar with the routine of students giving him music that he would later perform with little to no preparation beforehand. As the first notes of Santa Baby began to play, Kurt felt Blaine lean against his arm slightly, for all the world like they were just casually watching a performance. Kurt cast him a look, noticing that he didn't look any better than before, his expression neutral as he listened, occasionally smiling whenever Santana performed a particularly impressive vocal maneuver. Kurt rubbed his arm slightly, wanting to lend whatever comfort he could, even if he wished Blaine would just be honest with him and say what was wrong. Blaine smiled a little brighter after that, listening to Santana perform with a slightly more focused expression. At last, when the final notes rang out, Santana stood before the applause, Kurt and Blaine clapping with the rest.

"That was excellent, Santana!" Mr. Schue approved. "Really impressive. If we can pull something like that off for the homeless kids, we'll be in great shape."

Thinking absentmindedly to himself that Santa Baby probably wasn't the most appropriate song to sing to a group of homeless children, Kurt smiled nonetheless as the rest of the glee club dissolved into speculation about what songs they would sing. Before Kurt knew it, the bell rang and they were off to their second period classes, Blaine lingering behind as the rest filed out. Kurt waited for him to get up, shaking his head slightly when Blaine gave a little jolt of surprise before hurrying to his feet to trail after the rest, his satchel strung clumsily over a shoulder. "Hold up," Kurt murmured, adjusting the strap so it was actually on his shoulder instead of dangling half off his arm. "Take it easy today, okay?"

Blaine nodded slightly, reaching down to give his hand a brief squeeze. "I will," he assured. "Promise."

* * *

"Nick studying? What has the world come to?"

"Kurt," Nick said, profuse relief evident in his voice. "It's good to see you," he added, standing up and extending a hand which Kurt then shook. "It's been crazy around here."

"I can imagine," Kurt said, looking at all the papers scattered around Nick at the table. There were several other Dalton boys seated at various tables in the room studying their own notes, but most had looked up at the newcomer's arrival. Kurt didn't recognize any of them, but he did see a few were newer Warblers, looking equally relieved that Kurt was there. "What's going on?"

"Winter finals," Nick replied, wrinkling his nose. "It's hard being a junior around here. They load us down with work until we can't do anything else but breathe and study."

"At least you don't have anything vocally to worry about right now," Kurt observed, tracing a hand along the side of the table. He noticed the silence deepened around him at that, even the minutest shifting of paper seeming to cease as his words hung in the air. Even the non-Warblers seemed affected by the pronouncement, as though stating it aloud had given it a tangibility that just knowing it hadn't. Nick cleared his throat awkwardly, seemingly desperate to dispel the silence, and gestured towards the doors.

"Walk with me?"

After one last look around, Kurt nodded, noticing that several of the older boys were eyeing him warily, like a new threat rather than a neutral intruder. Kurt let Nick lead the way, holding the gazes of those that looked back at him, the younger boys returning to their work hurriedly, not wanting to be caught out.

They walked in silence for a long time, Nick leading the way and Kurt following, neither speaking. There was still the vacant chatter of other boys occupying the halls, but mostly there was quiet as everyone focused on their studies. Those that didn't have to worry about finals -- namely, the underclassmen -- had evidently retreated to those spaces where they wouldn't be prey to the upperclassmen's wrath at being interrupted. The wintry cast to the air outside seemed to deepen the isolation, Nick bringing them to the far end of the school where an isolated hall was, formerly the Warbler's hall before Dalton refashioned it.

Kurt looked around, examining the wooden patterns and Dalton insignias still hung on banners at the corners. After selecting the most comfortable chair near a still burning fireplace -- the Dalton staff religiously kept the common room fires burning throughout the winter, namely because Dalton's heating system was minimal at best in the main part of the school -- Kurt looked up at Nick expectantly. The latter paced in front of him, his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed slightly before at last he came to a halt and sat on the arm of a chair opposite Kurt.

"Things are . . . edgy here," Nick said at last, his voice tense. "The juniors were upset that Sebastian was pulled out of the Warblers and put on suspension. The sophomores are happy, but everyone else just refuses to talk to each other about it. I tried to get the seniors to speak up," Nick added with a slight shrug, "but they didn't understand why we had ousted one of our most vocally talented members because a rival school member complained."

"Do they know about the accusations at all?" Kurt asked in a low voice. "Or is it all just speculation?"

"Speculation, mostly," Nick admitted. "We didn't know what to tell them," he added, slightly defensively, correctly interpreting Kurt's expression. "You haven't exactly gone public with what Sebastian's been doing. I don't even know how you got Sebastian suspended."

"We got him suspended because he incited a fight," Kurt said icily. "But there's more than that, Nick. You know that he's been stalking and harassing us."

Nick nodded in a so-so gesture, holding out his hands in a placating way. "It would really help if you just talked to them," he said. "I'm not involved enough in this to convince them. I'm just this liaison between Blaine and you and the rest of the Warblers."

Kurt sighed silently, resting his head against his hand slightly. He had known it would come to this -- in some corner of his mind, he had expected it by coming there at all -- but it was still frustrating that he would have to stand before the Warblers again and make his claims against Sebastian.

"I'm sorry to keep throwing this on you," Nick said suddenly. Kurt watched him with neutral eyes, neither encouraging nor discouraging. Nick took the unspoken permission and went on. "We need you here right now, Kurt. The Warblers are falling apart and I can't stop it because I didn't get rid of Sebastian."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing," Kurt said, his voice betraying no emotion; quite a feat, considering the frustration he felt.

"No! No, I'm happy he's gone," Nick said, his voice and expression sincere, calming some of Kurt's irritation. He leaned back in the chair slightly, inviting Nick to continue. "Seriously, Kurt, it's not fun right now trying to keep everyone from going at each other's throats but it's also a lot better than it was when Sebastian was in charge."

"Hard to believe," Kurt murmured, "if you saw their faces back in the hall."

"They're upset, Kurt. We lost regionals, we lost two of our best singers -- you and Blaine really were fantastic, and I don't think you appreciate just how much we loved having you around -- and now we've lost Sebastian who was, I hate to admit, good at keeping everyone quiet. They didn't object to him leading until it started getting out of hand, like that visit to McKinley. But the upperclassmen got over it and the underclassmen didn't have enough authority to really protest him." He shrugged slightly, helpless. "I thought things might settle down once Sebastian was out, but if anything, it's just gotten worse. We need someone to step in, and right now, you're the only one I can think of who could make peace."

"What happens when I leave, though?" Kurt asked, standing and pacing slowly, looking at the fire. "I'm not staying here, Nick. I can't constantly intervene when it comes to the Warblers. Someone else has to take over, because it's not me and it's not Sebastian. So who is it?" He looked straight at Nick then, silently assessing. "I won't be here next year," he added, almost gently. "I'm going to college. I won't be able to just come out here when something bad happens. So what are you going to do?"

Nick sighed, putting his face in his head briefly, massaging his forehead. Kurt almost took pity on him -- it was clear that he was under an overwhelming load, trying to manage his own life as well as the entire Warblers -- but Kurt knew he had to be strong if this was going to work at all. He couldn't help soothe raw nerves only for them to re-ignite at the first difficulty; he had to work out something that would ensure the future of the Warblers was secure.

Because if Kurt was honest with himself, he cared about the Warblers. He cared about what happened to Nick and Jeff and the few others that lingered. He even cared about the futures of the current Warblers, particularly those who were young enough that they would truly shape this next generation of Warblers. He wanted them to succeed and become as great as they had been, better, if possible, but it would take leadership to do that, and Kurt was not a viable candidate for the position.

"Trume came back last week," Nick said at last, his voice soft.

"He's still connected with Sebastian, though," Kurt reminded. "Besides, do you really want to place all of the power in one person?"

Nick looked down at his hands, toying with them uncomfortably, seeming uncertain what he was expected to say. "You want me to be the leader," he said. It wasn't a question. Kurt nodded slightly, anyway, and Nick ran a hand through his hair. "I can't do it alone," he pointed out fiercely. "Even Blaine had Wes and David to support him, and Thad when those two failed."

"Then find the most trustworthy Warblers and make them your support system," Kurt said. "Jeff and Trent, maybe, or another junior. Now might not be a bad time to involve some of the underclassmen, either. You'll graduate someday soon, too, Nick."

Nick let out a soft laugh, staring at Kurt. "Honestly, I'm just trying to survive this year," he admitted. "I'll worry about the future when it comes."

Kurt nodded, folding his arms and waiting. Nick stood, clasping his shoulder with a hand, and said simply, "I'll work something out. Promise."

"Good," Kurt said. Then: "When's the next Warbler's meeting?"

Nick checked his watch, yelped, and said, "Crap."

"It's in session, isn't it?" Kurt asked, almost dryly.

"If we hurry, we'll still be Jeff," Nick said, bolting out of the room.

Kurt shook his head, following at a more leisurely pace. Some things will never change, he thought.

* * *

Blaine knocked onto the door of his own home, feeling oddly out of place. He had his jacket drawn up close to him, one hand holding it together almost protectively. The thought that he couldn't even walk into his own house without feeling like a stranger was an eerie sensation, one that made him want to retreat and walk back to Dalton. Kurt had helpfully dropped him off at the park, thinking he meant to speak with James, who lived fairly close by. Kurt had let him go with only a light admonition to stay warm and be safe, Blaine nodding and walking off in the direction of James' house. Blaine felt a little guilty for misleading him, but he couldn't help himself. He had to know if his parents cared at all, and from their silence, he knew that he would have to be the one to (once again) extend the tenuous line of communication between them.

On the third knock, he waited, listening for any signs of life within. It seemed to take a disproportionately long time before the handle turned, Blaine's heart pounding as he waited. Kurt's cautions hadn't been entirely unwarranted, he thought, feeling suddenly chilled. He was coming down with something, he knew it, but he refused to let it pull him down. He had always been able to plow through even the worst with the Warblers, forming such an image of robust health that most boys didn't even question it. Now, however, he wished he had his full strength, if only because he didn't want to approach his parents already feeling worn down.

Steeling himself, Blaine waited as the door opened, his mother appearing in the frame a moment later. "Blaine," she said, a breathless gasp, stunned and relieved at once. "Oh, Blaine . . ."

"Why haven't you called?" Blaine rasped, suddenly accusing, not wanting to feel like he was somehow responsible for making her worry. "Does it matter if I'm just gone for weeks at all to you anymore?"

"Of course it does," his mother said, shying away slightly, sounding shocked. "We tried calling you but your phone was off."

Sebastian.

A wave of loathing nearly overwhelmed him, silencing his next words. His mother looked at him anxiously, her hands wringing each other, until at last she said quietly, "Please, come inside."

Blaine hugged his coat a little tighter to himself, not moving. "You knew where I was," he pointed out. "Why didn't you call Kurt's?"

His mother opened her mouth, closed it, then said simply, "We thought you would respond to your phone. The fact that you didn't . . . we thought you didn't want to talk to us."

Blaine was silent, unable to think of anything to say to that.

"It's freezing out here," his mother said, "just . . . Blaine, come inside, please."

With a sigh, Blaine obliged, stepping over the threshold of the door and feeling no more warmed that he was indoors. It wasn't home, didn't make him feel comfortable and warm like he always did at the Hudson-Hummels. It was just an empty house to him, silent and still.

"Emily? Who is it?" a voice asked, Brian emerging a moment later, crutches perched under his arms. He paused and stiffened when he saw that it was Blaine, his entire body going tense. "Blaine?" He walked forward, hobbling slightly, and came to a halt several feet away, his gaze bright and -- relieved, enormously relieved. "What happened to you?" He gestured with one hand at Blaine's face -- Blaine's left hand rose reflexively to cover the bruise, still visible if not as prominent as before. He noticed his mother's slightly pained expression as she looked at the bruise more intently. It had probably been too rude to stare when it was just the two of them, of course, but now that Brian had pointed it out she had no such reservations.

Blaine couldn't speak, unable to say what had happened, how Karofsky had punched him, how it had been Sebastian's appearance that had triggered it. Hell, he hadn't even told them about Sebastian.

"It's a long story," he said at last, hoping to dissuade them. Brian had never been fond of 'long stories,' and his mother usually used his father's signals to go off of.

Brian just sat down in a chair, however, gesturing for Blaine and his mother to do the same. After a moment, his mother sat down on the couch, waiting.

At last, Blaine sighed and sank down onto the remaining chair, hands clasped in his lap. He didn't know why he felt so nervous about this, so anticipatory. He had wanted to tell them, in some small corner of his heart, had wanted to get this out of him. It had plagued him, made him restless and uncertain even when he felt like he should finally feel relieved, and he knew that he had to just tell them. Whether or not they would listen, whether or not they would care, he had to tell them.

"I went back to Dalton one day to visit some friends," he began at last. "While I was there, I met a boy named Sebastian. He's the reason my face looks like this," he added with a bitter edge to his voice, gesturing at the bruise. "But that's not the first thing that happened."

And then he told them about Sebastian Smythe.

* * *

Kurt was feeling pretty proud of himself as he walked out of the Warbler's hall. He had managed to quell the worst arguments and relate the worst of Sebastian that needed telling without incriminating himself. It had been a wearing process -- there was no pleasant way to discuss the details, and just the mention of Sebastian made his blood boil and his desire to beat him to a pulp rage -- but he was relieved to have it done. And Nick had looked relieved and confident at the end, directing the conversation away from most quarrels and subduing the arguments that attempted to break out several times. He seemed emboldened by Kurt's presence, somehow stronger and more capable, and Kurt was happy to oblige, if only temporarily. Jeff had been helpful, too, even if he hadn't been fully aware of just how much Nick needed his support. Kurt knew that Nick would talk with him later and confirm their positions on the council. After a long discussion with the rest of the Warblers, they had finally placed Nick as temporary head council until a re-vote could be cast (given Trume's lengthy absence).

Overall, it had gone far better than Kurt had thought, even if he knew that the upperclassmen still eyed him warily as he left and the underclassmen seemed uncertain. He only made it five steps from the Warblers' hall before a voice asked, almost tentatively, "Hummel?"

Kurt turned, unsurprised to see that it was one of the freshmen. "Yes?" he asked, deciding to be obliging. The last thing he needed was to spark further animosity between the Warblers by upsetting any of them. This one, a dark-haired boy roughly the same height as he was, cleared his throat a little nervously before speaking.

"You know that bird that Anderson gave us?"

"His name's Blaine," Kurt corrected quietly, wondering why he didn't bother correct his own. Maybe he was just so used to hearing 'Hummel' in the halls that it was second nature. His heart briefly ached as he wondered whether Blaine felt the same way about his own name; clearly, there weren't fond memories from Hawthorne to build off.

"That bird Blaine gave us?" the freshman asked. Kurt nodded once. The freshman rubbed the back of his neck nervously, seeming deeply concerned about something, and Kurt's stomach plummeted at the thought. She didn't die, did she? It would be just their good fortune that the bird they had meant to symbolize the voice of the Warblers and bolster their spirits would die on them.

"I think she's sick," the freshman said at last, dispelling Kurt's worries of having to bury a second canary.

"Sick?"

The freshman nodded nervously, gesturing down the hall. Kurt followed, wondering why he didn't just direct this at Nick and leave -- he and Blaine had agreed to meet at three o'clock for the drive back to Lima, after all, and it was almost quarter to three now. When they came to the junior commons, Kurt was unsurprised to see Parlezvous in her cage sitting on one of the coffee tables. She was looking distinctly rumpled, Kurt thought, with missing feathers here and there and just a general air of lethargy about her that seemed abnormal. Kurt smiled slightly, however, as he and the freshman approached, the freshman gesturing anxiously at the cage. "She isn't singing," he added. "I mean, she wouldn't shut up for three days or so, but now she's just quiet all the time. I don't want to tell the other guys," he added quickly. "It's bad enough with them, let alone if I killed their bird." He looked morosely at Parlezvous, one hand running along the side of the cage.

"She's not dying," Kurt assured, reaching forward and gently unlocking the cage. With Pavarotti, it was always a hit-or-miss process: sometimes he was tame and sat on his perch or hopped onto Kurt's hand, other times he flew off and nearly escaped. On one near-disastrous occasion, Kurt had recruited Blaine and David to help him capture Pav, upturning every piece of furniture in the senior commons in the process and nearly letting the poor canary escape. Parlezvous didn't take flight at the open door, however, just tilted her head slightly at him before hopping onto his extended palm. "She's just molting," Kurt said, motioning towards the missing feathers around her back and neck. "It's completely normal."

"Oh," the boy said, sounding relieved. "I'm surprised she's not flying away," he added thoughtfully, watching in some bemusement as Kurt stroked Parlezvous's head with his forefinger gently. "I accidentally let her out once and she nearly flew off."

Kurt smiled slightly, humming. "She just has to get used to you," he said at last.

* * *

"So how's James?" Kurt asked conversationally as Blaine hopped into the front passenger seat of Kurt's Navigator.

Blaine shrugged a little. "He's fine."

Kurt frowned even as he pulled onto the road, not wanting to waste any daylight by just sitting around but also half-wishing he could spare looking over at Blaine to better assess his reaction. It was harder to tell from his voice alone what he was feeling, particularly since it had acquired a slightly hoarse quality that Kurt was increasingly suspicious was an illness. Either way, Kurt knew something was up, and it wasn't James. "Something wrong?" he asked aloud, knowing Blaine's response even before he said it.

"No. It's just kind of stressful for him right now."

"I'm not talking about James."

A pause. "I know."

Kurt couldn't think of anything to say to that -- he didn't know whether he was more disturbed by the fact that Blaine was actually admitting to being stressed out (which he rarely did, despite Kurt's insistence that he didn't keep things like that bottled up) or that he chose the third person to explain it. Flicking on his iPod, eager for some noise to distract from the overbearing silence, Kurt waited for Blaine to speak.

The drive was quiet for a long time, the only noise that of the music, until finally, perhaps an hour away from Lima, Blaine admitted, "I didn't go to James'."

"I know," Kurt said, surprising himself. He could tell Blaine was surprised, too, but he didn't say anything about that. "You're not hard to read, Blaine. Your parents?"

Blaine nodded slightly, something Kurt only saw out of the corner of his eye.

"What happened?" he asked at last, grateful that the weather was cooperating and the roads were cleared and iced. He disliked driving in the winter at all, but right then, he didn't want to put the additional strain of having to find their way home on Blaine. Besides, it was his car. Still, it would have been nice to have had the freedom to just look over at Blaine and see his expression more fully.

"I told them about Sebastian."

Kurt flinched a little, unable to help himself. The thought of Brian knowing was not a comforting thought. "And how did they react?"

Blaine shrugged, silent.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked eventually, sensing that he wasn't about to freely offer the information.

Blaine drew in a deep breath slowly, exhaling before he replied. "They want me to come back," was all he said.

Kurt didn't know what to say to that, just tapping his fingers slightly against the wheel. "What are you going to do?"

Blaine shrugged again. "I honestly don't know."

A long, uncertain silence.

"You don't have to, you know."

Blaine laughed slightly, no humor in his voice. "I know," he repeated.

Sensing that he wouldn't be getting any more substantial answers from him, Kurt freed one hand from the wheel and reached over, grabbing Blaine's in his, giving it a slight squeeze. "It'll be okay," he said softly.

Blaine just intertwined their fingers and said nothing.

* * *

"Well, we don't need to worry about fundraising at McKinley this year to raise money for the homeless kids," Schuester said, entering the choir room and beaming at them all. "We get to shoot a Christmas special!"

"I don't want to shoot Christmas," Brittany protested. "We won't get any presents."

"No, Brittany, shoot as in film. We're going to film a Christmas special for the local news," Schuester said, hands clasped. "And, I'm delighted to report, you're all cast!"

Excited muttering broke out, Rachel's voice raising out clearly above the rest as she said, "This is perfect."

"Hold up -- this isn't like the mattress land commercial, is it?" Mercedes broke in.

"It's completely nonprofit," Schuester assured, some of the energy visibly deflating from the room.

"Then how are we supposed to raise money for anyone?" Kurt asked dryly, when no one else seemed eager to volunteer to explain it.

"The TV station agreed to donate the proceeds to the shelter," Schuester explained. "Normally they would pay us a certain sum of the profits from the viewership, but this year they're going to give it to the homeless shelter instead. It doesn't violate the rules," he added, holding up the show choir competitions' rule book, "because we're not earning any of the profits, so we're still an amateur choir."

The group broke out into eager discourse, only interrupted when Schuester finally raised his voice above them all to speak again. "All right, all right, calm down, guys. There's still some things we have to clear up. The station wants us to direct the production so, after asking which student I thought would be most suited for the job of being the director . . . I nominated you, Artie."

"Mr. Schue, I . . . I couldn't," Artie said, sounding half-apologetic, half-stunned. "I just . . . the West Side Story--"

"--Was amazing," Schuester finished. "Seriously, Artie, you have a talent. I won't force this on you, but . . . we could really use someone with your expertise here."

Artie shrugged slightly. "I'll think about it," he said at last. "I can't make a decision about this right now."

"Take your time," Schuester said. "Just let me know before the end of the week. I'll need to let the producer know if I've changed the student director by then."

Artie nodded, looking pensively at some distant point, and Schuester turned to address the rest of them. "Now, I know some of these decorations may seem pretty elaborate," he said, gesturing to the trees and the tinsel that had been assembled around the room, "but we've always received secondhand or broken or ruined materials, and this year's different. For many of you, it's your last year with us, our last Christmas together." His eyes seemed to go briefly misty, and for a moment Blaine wondered if he was actually going to cry, before he pulled himself back to the present and continued. "This month is all about Christmas, so I want you to find a song that just means Christmas to you and sing it."

"Mr. Schue?" Rachel said, raising her hand. "Pardon me for ruining the moment, but I don't celebrate Christmas."

"Choose a song that describes the season for you, then," Schuester suggested. "Or a Hanukkah song. That goes for all of you," he added. "Even if it's not necessarily Christmas for you, find something that describes the holiday for you and sing about it."

"Mr. Schue? I think I've got one," Rory said, raising his hand as he spoke.

"Really? That's terrific, Rory," Schuester said, edging back so the center of the room was open. "You want to share it with us?"

Rory nodded, carefully climbing out of his seat and stepping to the front of the room. There was a slight hunch to his shoulders, Blaine noticed, as though he was either embarrassed or nervous about being in front of them. His voice was steady and clear as he spoke, though, talking about his family and--

He doesn't have anyone to celebrate Christmas with this year, Blaine realized, even while the first notes of Blue Christmas threaded through the air. His family's back in Ireland.

Blaine remembered Rory mentioning how he was staying with Brittany and her family, the former apparently still under the impression that he was a magical leprechaun. The fact that he didn't have any biological family around, not a single relative to share the holidays with, made Blaine uncomfortably aware of his own situation.

But I have Kurt.

And the rest of the Hudson-Hummels, who accepted him and -- yes, he could admit it, loved him like any normal family would -- but there was Rory, still struggling to find where he fit in Lima, Ohio.

When Rory finished his song to polite applause, Blaine made sure that, as soon as the group broke off to discuss ideas, he shifted to sit beside Rory. "So, what are your plans for the week?" he asked.

"Um, other than eating candy canes, you mean? 'Cause Brittany bought me about two 'undred of those."

"I'm not talking about candy canes," Blaine assured. "I'm talking about sled-riding."

Rory lit up, visibly brightened as he turned in his seat to face Blaine fully. "You're pullin' my leg," he accused. "No way."

"Mmhm. It's a little ways out, but if you're free on Thursday . . . Mercedes, Kurt, and I. Sound good?"

Rory eyed him skeptically for a few more moments before grinning, extending a hand which Blaine clasped. "Got yourself a deal, Anderson."

And yes, Blaine may still have been feeling the edges of sickness coming on, but he was hopeful that as long as he didn't push himself too hard, he would survive the week and the crash the next to recover before Christmas.

It'll be fine, he assured himself, already anticipating Thursday. You'll see, he added for his dubious side's benefit.


	49. Chapter 49

"I just don't know what to get him."

That had been the question plaguing Kurt Hummel all week, despite thoughts of how the PBS production would go vying for his attention. He had been unable to think of anything that would suit as a good Christmas present for Blaine. It shouldn't have been so hard -- Blaine would cherish a tic-tac if Kurt ever sank so low as to call it a 'present' -- but Kurt couldn't help overthinking and over-analyzing and soon working himself up into a frenzy about the whole affair. In years prior he had always just seemed to come across the perfect item that made him say This is perfect for Santana or This is perfect for Mike. It had never been an issue buying presents for people, and yet this year, it seemed like little else was troubling him more.

I don't want to get him something I would buy Santana or Mike, Kurt thought, flopping hopelessly back on Mercedes' bed. It's our first Christmas as boyfriends.

Had he known a year before that the same charming Warbler he was singing flirty duets with would eventually become his boyfriend, Kurt would have laughed hysterically at the proposition before moving on to more probable scenarios. Like growing a second head or developing a sudden affection for ripped jeans. The fact that the reality matched the impossible dreams his former self had had somewhat stunned him. It was an amazing, thrilling realization every time he thought about it, that he had a boyfriend for once to celebrate the holidays with rather than haughtily declaring them too mediocre for his high standards and finding other entertainment.

His boyfriend, who had conveniently made himself scarce for the afternoon by pleading that he had homework to do, when Kurt knew full well that he had already finished the entire week's worth in advance, just so he wouldn't have to worry about it. No, Kurt knew fully well he was denying his own susceptibility to illnesses like the rest of the mere mortals residing in Lima, Ohio, and had instead chosen any number of excuses that were all cover-ups for 'I'm going home and taking a nap and I would really, really appreciate it if you didn't need me for three hours or so while I do so.' Kurt had obliged, grateful that it made it simple to excuse himself for the day to hang out with Mercedes. She was one of those people that just made Kurt feel more comfortable with his own decisions and more confident that things would work out. Just listening to her etch it out in front of him, a sound board willing to take his panicked reprisals and turn them into a more coherent, manageable whole, was extremely therapeutic.

"You're amazing at picking out gifts for people," Mercedes said soothingly, sitting on the end of her bed near his feet. She was dressed in more casual wear than school, although Kurt wouldn't quite classify it as pajamas. He himself had toned down to the warm wintry gear he usually only broke out once the temperature dropped consistently below freezing. Once that happened, even high fashion had to take a minor holiday in favor of more practical (but still fabulous) attire. "You just need to be open-minded and not reject everything because you're trying to meet some impossible standard."

"This has to be special," Kurt said. "It's our first Christmas together, 'Cedes. That's really important to me. And I'm sure it's important to him, and that just makes it ten times harder to find something he'll like and something that will fit the occasion."

"Blaine likes a lot of things," Mercedes reminded. "I mean, you're more hard-pressed to find something he doesn't like, and honestly, as long as it's from you, I'm sure he'll like it."

Kurt harrumphed, unconvinced. "What if it's completely wrong, though? I mean, there's some gifts you give someone on their birthday, and others on an anniversary, and then those on just ordinary days, and why do their have to be so many different days to choose from?"

"Kurt. Focus. Christmas."

Kurt sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "What would you suggest?" he asked at last, voice defeated.

"If you want this to be special, it has to be your idea," Mercedes answered primly.

"What?" Kurt yelped. "Absolutely not! How am I supposed to find him a gift without your expertise?"

"What would you get him if it was just an ordinary day?" Mercedes quizzed instead, ignoring his question.

"I don't know," Kurt answered. "Are you--"

"Uh uh. Focus. It's Tuesday and you just want to say 'Thank you for being my boyfriend.' What do you get him?"

Kurt ran an exasperated hand through his hair, careful not to dishevel it, before blurting out in frustration, "Flowers. Or maybe chocolates, but only if Finn's not around, because he would totally eat those."

"Okay. What would you get him if it was his birthday?"

Kurt folded his hands, resting his head on them as he kicked his feet up behind him, crossing them in mid-air thoughtfully. "Probably a jacket," he admitted. "Just because he should wear nicer clothing but he would never buy it for himself. Or a cardigan, since he likes those, too." Rolling his eyes slightly in amusement, Kurt looked expectantly up at Mercedes.

"And if it was an anniversary?"

There was a long pause, Kurt picking absentmindedly at the bed covering. It had crossed his mind more than once what would happen once they reached that point, the day when he and Blaine had not just been together for a few weeks or months but years. It was surprising, just how staggering the possibility felt, actually celebrating one-year-of-being-together anniversaries and the like. And who knew what other milestones would crop up in the future, moments that deserved commemoration, even if it was shared solely between the two of them.

"Something special," he said at last, resting his head on his hands and looking at the bed covers instead of Mercedes. "Just take him out to dinner or to a play or something. A special event that we both wanted to see but we didn't want to go out and spend money on ourselves for no reason. Something memorable." He toyed with the invisible lint on the covers, somewhat embarrassed by his own openness about the whole thing, but that was the reason he consulted with Mercedes in the first instance. She would take what he gave her and something give it back exactly as it was, only with clearer insight as to what he should do. Trusting that, Kurt was willing to share his thoughts more with her than he would have with any of the other girls, Rachel included (and perhaps foremost, since she was notorious for accidentally revealing important information).

"You already know the answers," she said simply. "Christmas isn't that much different than a birthday or an anniversary when it comes to giving someone a gift. Yes, there's a whole different set to choose from, but you know what those are, Kurt, just like you know the rest."

"It's our first Christmas together," Kurt said, hoping that she would understand the magnitude of his out-of-his-league feelings.

"Don't overthink it," Mercedes urged. "Just use whatever ideas come to you. Boo, it will be fine, no matter what happens. Blaine isn't going to break up with you even if you buy him the worst present ever. You both might even get a laugh out of it if your present is terrible." At Kurt's worried expression, she sighed and amended, "It's not going to be terrible, Kurt."

"What if it is, though? What if it's really, really terrible and he doesn't like it at all but doesn't want to say that because how much ruder can you be and Blaine isn't a rude person, Mercedes, he would go to his grave swearing he loved it while secretly hating it. And then hate would lead to resentment and resentment would lead to horrible and nasty breakup. Like on The Bachelorette."

"First," Mercedes said, ticking the points off her fingers, "we have no idea what goes on behind the cameras, so it's hard to compare any of your relationships to The Bachelorette. Second, Kurt, honey, Blaine isn't stupid, either, and he knows that it would upset you more not to tell you than to just let it sit forever between you like that. He would tell you he didn't like it, even if it took a few days, and then he would probably act like a puppy the rest of the week trying to re-earn your forgiveness for not liking it. Third, he's not going to hate it, Kurt. Not even secretly. He will love whatever you give him, if for nothing else than he knows how much you care about him and even stressing out like this is a pretty big indicator that you do."

"Why can't I just have your boyfriend?" Kurt asked in a woe begotten tone. "Marcus is easy to buy for."

"So is Blaine," Mercedes pointed out promptly. "And unless you want me stealing your man to get back at you, I'd stay away from Marcus."

Laughing slightly at the thought, unable to help himself, Kurt flipped over so he was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling, his hands folded on his chest. "I just . . . I want this to be perfect. Like, as close to perfect as possible. Not necessarily 'perfect,' either, because Gaga knows this year's been anything but, but just . . . something really special."

"You'll find it," Mercedes said confidently, reaching over and grabbing one of his hands and giving it a squeeze. "You're Kurt Hummel. You don't give up unless you find what you're looking for."

Kurt smiled slightly at that, giving her hand a grateful squeeze back before sitting up on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket. He looked at the clock on Mercedes' nightstand, revealing that it was only five o'clock. "Want to go shopping?" he asked, excited slightly in spite of himself. Now that he was trying to actively find an item without rejecting everything as unworthy, it was an exhilarating feeling, trying to find the perfect gift. He had spent many a day searching for various outfits with a determination that could only be called fervent, always finding the item -- or the next best-alternative -- when all was said and done.

"Sure your beau won't mind me keeping you a while longer?" Mercedes asked, already hopping to her feet to find a more suitable jacket for the weather.

Kurt huffed slightly, pulled out his phone, and sent out a quick text. Going out with Mercedes for a few hours. Food in fridge for Finn.

A pause, then: K loveyoutoo bye.

Chuckling, Kurt answered, "No, he won't mind."

* * *

"Hi," Kurt chirped, because he could and there was nothing better than proving himself right, which was clearly evident in the fact that Blaine had been napping on the couch with a pillow over his head and one arm tossed casually overtop it. "How was work?" he asked, still cheerily, pointedly ignoring Blaine's grumbled response as he sat down on top of Blaine's calves on his usual spot on the couch. There were no papers around the area, of course, and besides Blaine's phone sitting on the floor near his dangling hand, no sign that he was doing anything other than sleeping. "Guess what I did?"

"What?" Blaine grunted.

"I went shopping with Mercedes."

"You told me," Blaine grumbled, wrapping his arms more firmly around the pillow and holding it to his head as though he was trying to block out the sound of Kurt's voice. Kurt smiled slightly, wondering how out of it he was not to notice that Kurt was already sitting on his legs and therefore not that easily dissuaded, but Blaine just shifted a little and sighed happily.

"Don't you want to know how it was?" Kurt said, pitching his voice to contain just the right amount of wounded surprise that he knew Blaine would react. Sure enough, Blaine lifted the pillow slightly, peering narrow-eyed up at Kurt, before blinking twice and planting the pillow back over his face.

"How was it?" he asked, his voice still a low, sleepy rumble.

"It was marvelous," Kurt said, using one hand to trace absent patterns along Blaine's back lightly, just a feathery touch that was there and gone. Blaine let out a gush of breath in a satisfied sigh, arching slightly when Kurt withdrew his hand briefly before settling back against the couch. Finn was out with Rachel for the night, anyway, and Kurt knew that his dad and Carole were out enjoying a lovely pre-Christmas dinner. Using his thumb to trace the smooth contours of Blaine's back, Kurt went on, describing the adventure in a stream of nonsensical chatter, pointedly leaving out every hint as to what they were searching for, although heavily implying it was for a close friend of Mercedes. Blaine just hummed and occasionally nodded from underneath the pillow in acknowledgement, at last letting out a slightly sad sigh as Kurt retreated, sitting on the floor by his head instead.

"So, still think you're not sick?" he asked, smiling in amusement as Blaine resolutely shook his head.

"Holidays are for sleeping," he replied. "I'm enjoying the holidays."

"Of course you are," Kurt said, rolling his eyes at that as he bounced to his feet and sauntered over to the television. "In which case, I am going to enjoy my holidays by watching 'The Bachelorette' re-runs all night."

Blaine made a dubious noise, grunting slightly when Kurt flopped down onto his legs with a blanket, comfortably leaning back against the couch as he flipped on the TV. Kurt was actually fairly engrossed in the episode when Blaine finally surrendered and moved over so he was pressed against Kurt's side instead of the couch, watching the episode with squinted eyes and one arm holding the pillow protectively. Kurt said nothing, just smirking slightly to himself in satisfaction.

It was fun proving his point, but it was more fun enjoying the holidays with his boyfriend.

* * *

Of course, two days later when Blaine (having made a so-called miraculous recovery from his illness that Kurt wasn't believing for a minute) told him that he had asked Rory to come sled-riding with Kurt, Mercedes, and himself, Kurt was feeling slightly less good-spirited towards him.

Blaine had just walked up to him as he was finishing pulling books out of his locker and casually mentioned that he and Rory were going sled-riding that afternoon and Kurt and Mercedes' presences were required. After darting a quick look at him to see if he was joking, Kurt had deadpanned, "You're kidding," and felt his stomach sink when Blaine shook his head cheerfully.

"I won't force you to go sled-riding," he said, correctly interpreting Kurt's horrified expression. "However, I do think it would be good if you at least went with us."

"Like you're in any shape to go sled-riding," Kurt argued, switching tactics from his own dislike to Blaine's physical state. Blaine just smiled, though, for all the world like he didn't know what Kurt was talking about, and Kurt rolled his eyes in exasperation. "How committed to this are you?"

"Pinkie-sworn," Blaine said gravely. "Can't go back on it."

"Ha-ha," Kurt retorted, shutting his locker and shaking his head to himself as he started walking. It wasn't until he was sitting in the top row of the choir room and Blaine had sat delicately on the seat beside him that he realized Blaine looked worried and uncertain, now, as though the mere suggestion had been seriously overstepping somehow.

"I'll come with you only if I get to sit in the car the entire time and have my will with the music."

"I don't want to make you go with us," Blaine said, fidgeting with his hands slightly, looking thoroughly like a chastised puppy. "I mean, I could just tell Rory that you're not interested, he'd understand, I don't--" He paused when Kurt shook his head slightly, an amused smile playing across his lips despite himself. "What?"

"It's fine," was all he said. "I'll endure and you two can have your merry way without my assistance."

"Kurt--"

"Argue with me and I won't let you have any of Christmas cookies," Kurt sing-songed.

Blaine wisely stopped arguing, though he did mention that he had told Rory that Mercedes would come, too, something that he had apparently already told her about and gotten an enthusiastic reply.

Why didn't she tell me? Kurt thought a little sulkily, keeping his expression outwardly neutral as he listened to Blaine's explanation, not wanting to further dishearten him. Blaine still eyed him skeptically at the end, unsure if his offer was still being rejected even though Kurt had agreed, and Kurt rolled his eyes inwardly as he tried to look as interested as possible. Which, he supposed, couldn't have been too much, since the thought of being anywhere near snow intentionally did not appeal to him in the slightest. All he wanted to do was stay warm and indoors, not get soaked to the skin in snow, miserable and cold.

You don't have to go sledding, Kurt's rational side pointed out. You can just wait in the car until they're done.

Knowing that at the very least he would step out of the warmth of his Navigator to supervise, however, did little to soothe his trepidations overall. Still, Kurt was nothing if not determined, and seeing the way Rory's expression brightened just that little bit as he looked over at Blaine and grinned made Kurt firmly decide that he would do this. He would. He just had to find that resolve buried within him and bring it to the forefront, since he was positive there was a Kurt Hummel somewhere that could handle snow.

Glee club seemed to pass in a rush, a ten-minute blurb soon interrupted as Mr. Schue clasped his hands together and directed them all to the auditorium where Artie was waiting. As soon as they were all settled into the first rows, Artie wheeled to the front and spoke, addressing all of them with a slightly nervous but mostly proud smile. "I've accepted the directing offer," he said simply. "We go live next Friday."

Rachel's hand shot up the second he stopped speaking, her own voice carrying as she spoke. "What numbers are we performing?"

"That," Artie said imperiously, "is yet to be determined. I am, however, looking for suggestions. . . ."

At which point Rachel shot out of her seat and was behind the drawn curtain of the stage almost before the last syllable was out of Artie's mouth. There was a flurry of movement before the curtain rose, revealing part of the jazz band and a wintry setting that only Rachel Berry could conjure without knowing what she was performing for beforehand. "I've been planning for exactly this occasion," Rachel said primly, launching into River as soon as the instrumentalists were ready.

Kurt leaned against Blaine's shoulder slightly throughout the performance, wanting to be an attentive audience but mostly bored with the idea of Rachel dominating yet again. He had lost the Tony role to Blaine, and while he didn't resent him for it, he wasn't eager to see someone like Rachel, who had performed as Maria, stealing the spotlight once more. Looking over occasionally at Artie, trying to glean his reaction, Kurt could tell that he was of a similar mind, his expression less enthused than it had been when he first announced that he was director of the production. At last, as the final notes came ot an end and Rachel stood on the stage expectantly, Kurt just closed his eyes briefly and tried to ignore the thought of her earning a lead role, again.

". . . happy songs," Artie was saying. "Christmas is all about joy and giving, not depressing people to the point of emotional suicide."

"That song is emotional for a reason," Rachel protested.

"And we want emotion, just not the 'claw out my eyes' sort," Artie responded, his voice brighter than Kurt thought the conversation merited. "You just need to find something that doesn't make me want to wheel myself off a cliff, and then maybe you'll be invited to Kurt and Blaine's for Christmas."

Kurt almost choked on air, which was quite a feat for him, as he sat upright and stared at Artie in surprise, dazed and supremely confused. "What do you mean, Kurt and Bla--"

"You two are the perfect hosts," Artie said simply, shrugging as though this was the most obvious decision in the world. "I've already selected the perfect location for it: in the charming little village of Gstaad in the Swiss Alps, where your chic, swank bachelor's chalet shall reside."

"So you're saying that if I don't choose a happier song, I'm not invited to Kurt and Blaine's for Christmas?" Rachel asked, sounding horrified.

Artie nodded. "It's for the good of the entire production, Rachel," he added. "We don't want people changing channels as soon as your depressing music comes on."

Sulking slightly, clear put out about this assessment of her song selection, Rachel stalked over to the front row where Finn was sitting and sat down next to him. Artie wheeled over to where Kurt and Blaine were, pausing once he was close by, beaming at the group as a whole. "We only have an eight hundred dollar budget to work with," he warned, "but I've already decided that for this, it's worth shaving a little close to the edge. The entire scene is going to be fully decked out in an homage to the black-and-white Christmas tributes of the 1960s . . . as well as an homage to Star Wars."

"Star Wars?" Kurt repeated incredulously.

Artie nodded, eyes brightening as he gestured. "I had a dream that I met Chewbacca in English class and he told me that I needed to do this. For him. Christmas isn't Christmas without Chewbacca."

"So we're having a woolly mongrel over for Christmas?" Kurt said, trying to imagine Chewbacca of all things bursting into his door during the middle of their holiday special and eating all of the Christmas dinner. Artie shook his head, however, alleviating some of Kurt's concerns.

"No, we're just going to pay tribute to him. I'm not sure in what way yet," he added. "But I'll figure it out. As far as the chalet goes . . . full out Christmas gear. I want a towering tree, garlands streaming, stockings hanging, everything bejeweled. You two are throwing the Christmas party of the decade for some good friends, and it will be fabulous."

Fabulous, will it? Kurt thought, smiling slightly to himself as he thought about that. Perhaps Artie's directing skills had been a little overbearing in the past, but he could produce a good musical when need be, and Kurt had some faith in him to handle this latest investment well. Besides, it's starring yours truly, what better could anyone ask for? Kurt thought, allowing his egotistical side a moment's celebration.

Then, exchanging a look with Blaine, who seemed equal parts mystified and thrilled at the prospect, he thought, Filming it with Blaine's better.

* * *

"This is absolutely suicidal."

"Kurt, it's fun," Blaine said, beaming as he and Rory pulled out the pair of sleds from the back of Kurt's poor Navigator. "And you don't have to touch it if it bothers you."

Flushing slightly because of course getting snowy bothered him, Kurt folded his arms instead, doing his best to look haughtily disinterested as he peered around him. Blaine had directed him to a secluded part of western Lima where a large hill had been formed and, without any obstacles to impair its snowy growth, become a massive sledding sheet. Kurt just knew from looking at it that he would go rocketing down it at speeds one could only describe as terrifying, then crash into the snow banks below given the lack of navigational devices on the sled itself. Having no desire to suffer through such an indignity, Kurt was somewhat amazed at the enthusiasm Blaine and Rory (and even Mercedes, to an extent) displayed for the sport, eagerly chatting about it the entire thirty-minute drive out.

"So," Blaine asked at last, brushing his hands together briskly and beaming at the hill. "Who's first?"

"I think it's ladies first," Rory said, scratching the back of his hat-covered head.

"Mm-mm, white boys, I am not going down that first," Mercedes protested, folding her arms.

Blaine shrugged, casually setting his sled near the top, and sitting on it, perching so that his feet kept him from sliding forward. "See you on the other side," he beamed, tucking his feet in and with one strong shove propelling himself down the hillside with a howl of joy.

And yes, he rocketed down just as fast as Kurt had anticipated, and crashed spectacularly through a snowbank, somehow sliding smoothly to a stop on the other side, a cloud of powder around him.

Rory shot off before Kurt could so much as form words to describe how ridiculous his boyfriend was, laughing and clutching at his sled, leaning low for extra momentum and sliding easily passed the newly scraped path.

"I don't even have words," Kurt admitted at last, while Blaine and Rory just laughed at the bottom of the hill, their voices slightly faint from the distance. "How . . . ?"

"Damn, those boys better get up here fast, because I want to try!" Mercedes said, rubbing her hands together eagerly.

Soon it became a contest to see who could carve the most impressive trail and slide the farthest. Blaine's low center of gravity seemed to help, but poor aim meant he consistently passed through the fluffy snowbanks that Kurt had thought would be mostly congealed snow and ice. Watching the three slide down the hillside was relaxing, in a strange sort of way, Kurt laughing with them whenever something particularly ridiculous happened. Rory skidded off his sled at the bottom of the hill several times, looking around in surprise while his sled continue to fly past him, bouncing to a halt usually ten yards away from him. Overall, Kurt couldn't tell who was winning their impromptu contests, only half-convinced that someone would face-plant in the snow every time they went soaring down, down, and across.

"Whoof," Blaine commented eloquently as he dragged his sled up for the dozenth time, dropping to sit on the snow carelessly, cheeks flushed with excitement and cold. "Sure you don't want to try?" he added, grinning over his shoulder at Kurt, who had elected to watch them while leaning against his Navigator. Shaking his head earnestly, Kurt watched as Rory climbed the hill and collapsed next to Blaine, his own sled skidding to a halt beside him.

"White boys have no energy," Mercedes said, grinning, as she pulled herself up the hill nimbly. "You two seriously tired out?"

"Never," Blaine protested valiantly, not making any move to stand up as he waved the 'reigns' to his sled challengingly. Mercedes laughed, plucked Rory's sled from beside him, and whooped with laughter as she launched herself for another go.

It went on and on and on, interrupted with longer and longer breaks until finally Rory and Blaine just keeled over at the top and didn't bother get up, laughing breathlessly.

"Oi," Rory said at last, gaining enough breath to finally take notice of Kurt, who was rubbing his hands together briskly to fend off the cold. "You ought to give it a try, Hummel. Haven't truly lived till you've sledged."

"'Sledged'?" Kurt repeated, shaking his head. "Absolutely not."

"Come on, Kurt," Blaine said, still wheezing slightly with laughter, "it's fun."

"It's dangerous," Kurt said, brushing off his arms and shrugging once.

"No it's not," Rory protested. "You should give it a go."

Kurt shook his head. "Maybe next year," he said, knowing full well that he wouldn't be around next year to attempt it.

"Kuuurt," Blaine whined, catching him in the lie. "Just try it. Just once. I promise. If it kills you I'll come after you to the afterlife and buy you coffee for eternity. Just try it once."

"What happened to I could just stand here and you would go sled-riding?" Kurt accused. "So much for supportive boyfriend."

"I just want you to try new things," Blaine urged, finally mustering the energy to sit up. "Besides, we've already flattened the snow, so you won't get showered in powder at the bottom."

"Lovely," Kurt said, easily able to list a dozen other horrors to the experience that were equally as unpleasant and definitely preventing him from feeling any desire for the sport whatsoever.

Blaine just looked at him with big puppy-dog eyes and Kurt hated that he could manipulate his emotions so easily because now he felt like a Scrooge. "Blaine," he tried to cut in, determined not to lose this argument, "you said--"

"Just once," Blaine pleaded, while Mercedes climbed over the top of the hill and sat down beside them.

Kurt sighed, shaking his head. "No."

And now both Rory and Blaine looked dejected and really, did they both have to make him seem like he was the most terrible person on the planet for refusing this?

"Fine," Blaine sighed at last, picking himself up and walking over to the Navigator, sled in tow. "One more run," he added, setting it down at the crest of the hill where he'd begun, looking back at Kurt with one look that said, I really wish you'd just try it before sitting down and sliding over the edge, his ride smooth and sleek and silent, coming to a clean halt at the bottom.

And now Kurt sighed in frustration as he looked down at Rory, who simply handed him the reigns of his sled and looked solemn, while Kurt delicately perched it on the edge of the hill.

Truthfully, he'd never been sled-riding, always insisting that it was too juvenile for his high tastes. (And, after seeing Blaine's, Rory's, and Mercedes' performance, he wasn't surprised to say that aspect of it hadn't changed). And yet, he thought, settling himself carefully in the seat, able to feel the anticipatory air clinging to Blaine even from his vantage way down and over and -- Gaga, Kurt was going to cross that?

Focus. Don't think about that. Just hold on, keep your feet tucked, and don't hit the snow.

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath to steel himself, Kurt inched forward, just the tiniest bit, his feet still jammed in the snow. (And now he was probably ruining his outfit, Kurt thought morosely, although it would be thoroughly ruined after this, no doubt.) He could do this. He would. He was Kurt Hummel, and that meant no obstacle was too great, particularly one so unflatteringly simple as snow.

He would do this. He would.

Closing his eyes briefly, clinging to the sides of the sled and wishing he had talked himself out of this already, he tucked his feet in quickly and shot off, shrieking the whole way down. And yes, it was terrifying and exhilarating and fun all at once, the thrilling unknown of how he was supposed to stop this mad flight almost as exciting as the ride itself. When he at last came to a smooth halt at the bottom, exactly as Blaine had said he would, he couldn't help breathing a ragged sigh of relief, shakily climbing off the sled. Immediately, arms wrapped around him, almost toppling him over as he just barely caught Blaine, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"You are the most amazing boyfriend ever," he said sincerely. "I love you so much. Thank you."

Kurt harrumphed, feeling mildly traumatized with the incident but also satisfied with himself for having survived it. "Snow is no obstacle," he said loftily, Blaine just giving him a hard squeeze in return.

* * *

"This was never this hard when I was the only one worried about buying the tree," Kurt said, looking around the tree nursery and shaking his head as Finn and Rachel stood in front of one arguing the merits of it. Blaine nudged his shoulder slightly, looking a little more ragged than he had earlier (even a warm shower couldn't quite cure what now seemed to be an inevitable sickness) but still managing a small smile at Kurt's comment. He walked off in the opposite direction that Finn and Rachel were, silently beckoning Kurt to follow. After a moment's consideration, Kurt obliged, musingly looking around at the trees and wondering if any of them would meet Rachel Berry's standards. Probably not, he thought, shaking his head slightly before coming to a halt with Blaine in the middle of one of the aisles.

"We should just pick out one and let them argue about it for another hour before telling them we already have one," he murmured, tracing a gloved hand along the edges of pine needles absentmindedly.

"What, and ruin their fun?" Kurt asked dryly.

"They'll still have fun," Blaine assured, pinching the bridge of his nose slightly. "Ugh. This weather's horrible."

"I thought you liked the snow," Kurt teased, knowing that Blaine was just distracting himself from the real issue. Blaine shot him a pointed look that said, I know what you're doing before rolling his eyes and looking aside, examining the trees once more.

"They all look the same to me," he said at last. "Why not just pick that one?" He gestured casually at one of the pines standing in the row, Kurt shaking his head slightly as he looked at the rest.

"That one's missing some of its branches," he pointed out, indicating the bald areas that were craftily hidden but still visible to a hawkish eye such as his. "You want one like that, or maybe that one," he added, indicating two healthier specimens slightly down the row. Blaine walked over to them, staring pensively at the pair for several long moments in silence, before shrugging and pointing at the first one.

"That one," he said decisively.

"Are you sure?" Kurt asked, putting on a mock unconvinced expression. "Looks a little short, doesn't it?"

"The living room isn't that tall," Blaine pointed out.

"But we still want a fabulous tree," Kurt reminded.

Blaine sighed, tugging off his hat briefly to run a hand through his hair, before shrugging and saying, "Whichever one you want is fine."

"Do you want to go home?" Kurt asked seriously, noticing that his cheerful demeanor had dropped entirely, now, replaced by a tired one. He hated himself inwardly for having caused that, reaching out and brushing a hand apologetically against Blaine's upper arm.

"No," Blaine said fervently, then blinked and added, "Oh, yeah. Um. Shouldn't we stay here with Finn and Rachel?"

"They can arrange a ride," Kurt assured, puzzled by Blaine's original reaction. It took him a moment to realize that maybe home still had other connotations, of a certain quiet residence out in Westerville that was still missing one courtesy of its parents negligence. They shouldn't have ignored him for so long, Kurt thought fiercely, if they wanted him back.

So he shut out his mutinous thoughts and linked arms with Blaine casually, leading them back to Kurt's Navigator after sending off a quick text to Rachel -- Gone home with B.

"Sorry," Blaine said, leaning against the window as soon as he was in the front passenger's seat and closing his eyes. "It's just been kind of crazy lately."

"Crazy for us all," Kurt agreed, turning on the ignition and silently deciding that if Rachel and Finn didn't find a tree to their liking (quite plausible, considering it was them), Kurt would come back for the one he and Blaine had picked out instead.

* * *

Blaine was self-sufficient, so while he had moments of weakness, he still managed to act the part for the wintry chalet scene that Artie had in mind. It helped that he was referring to his and Kurt's future instead of their present, able to slip into that realm of light-hearted perfection that made his heart ache every time he had to let it go. It was just so easy to lose himself in the thrill of performing and also imagining that this was real, that Rachel and Mercedes and the others really were coming over for the holidays to enjoy some good old fashioned company on a brisk winter's night.

It was comfortingly domestic, the scene recreated to perfection from some 1960s backdrop, and Blaine was pleasantly surprised at just how well the mold suited him. He walked around and felt at home, really at home, and for once he didn't worry about what impression the glee club kids had of him or whether or not he was performing it perfectly. He just had fun with it, singing his heart out (and somehow, mercifully, not afflicted by the same hoarseness that he had woken up with, although he attributed that mostly to a strange but helpful tea Kurt had whipped up for him as soon as he noticed).

Overall, through the dozens of practice sessions they did, wanting to have the scene memorized and performed as closely to Artie's image as possible, Blaine didn't feel worn down or stressed or tired as he had been. He was free, able to frolic around the living room performing all of the ridiculous dance moves that Finn once would have scorned and now, along with the rest of the glee club, looked on with a grinning smile.

The fire crackling in the background, the music playing loudly and the whole scene decked out in Christmas' finest, Blaine felt one with his environment. It wasn't just practicing on another set, on another stage: it was a homecoming, a welcoming back to the future that felt eerily realistic. He could imagine just walking in here casually and starting up a fire and being around Kurt and just enjoying each other's company. Whether that meant breaking into song or not, and whether there were laughable dance maneuvers involved or not, it was just home for him.

His throat dry and his voice slightly hoarse by the time Artie packed it up for the day, Blaine just hoped that he had gotten a good take that they could air during the actual 'live special.' After much discussion, they had mutually agreed with the PBS representative that it would be easier to film it out in a pre-recorded session and play that instead of attempting the entire script live. There were different numbers that had to be performed and sometimes entirely different jazz members to be brought in, making a continuous whole impossible. Blaine didn't mind the delays, since it meant he just had to sit on one of the couches and look adoringly at the house or at Kurt. An easy day of performing, to say the least, and one that certainly had more satisfactory results than feigning death as Tony had.

This is different, Blaine thought, looking around the room as it emptied of stragglers, Artie and a few others remaining behind to pick up equipment. This is my life, not someone else's.

"Ready?" a voice asked, startling him, and Blaine turned to Kurt with a grin.

"I don't know," he said, inflecting his voice in the same jolly tone as on screen. "Are you sure you don't have any Christmas dinner for us? Finn isn't going to be happy about that."

"Very funny," Kurt said, rolling his eyes as he held out his hands. Blaine accepted them, tugging himself to his feet and looking around, smiling at the real snow now falling outside the window.

"We didn't even need fake snow," he pointed out, gesturing at the window. Kurt looked at groaned, Blaine smiling slightly as he asked, "What?"

"I hate driving in snow," Kurt muttered.

"I'll drive, then," Blaine offered.

Kurt eyed him, then shook his head, smiling slightly. "No way. I'm not letting you fall asleep at the wheel and killing us both."

"I won't fall asleep at the wheel," Blaine grumbled, but Kurt just laughed and walked out the door, Blaine trailing behind him.

And yes, Blaine may have closed his eyes within three minutes of the ride, but he wasn't asleep. He was picturing the scenes over in his mind, trying to capture every moment, every second of it all, Kurt's smiles and gestures, the cheesy way they bantered, every domestic touch that just made the scene theirs, even if it was only for a little while.

I want that to be us, he thought, sinking unwittingly towards sleep as he did so, I want that to be our future.


	50. Chapter 50

Kurt looked over at his sleeping boyfriend with sympathetic eyes, one hand balancing his college list carefully on his knee. It was strange, revisiting the list and putting a neat check beside each of the schools he had applied to, delicately crossing out those that he had ultimately not decided to send in applications for. He had known from the onset that he would not be able to apply for all of them, for monetary reasons, if nothing else; college application fees were sometimes twenty dollars or more, and applying to multiple colleges quickly amounted to a grander total than he was willing to commit to without any guarantees of admission.

So, after careful consideration and agonizing over which colleges would make the final cut, he had filled out those applications, written the (painstakingly difficult) essays, and mailed in the letters with bated breath and Blaine at his shoulder offering encouragement. It had not been an easy process, and there had been more than a few tears of frustration shed as he tried to cope with the overwhelming possibility that he wouldn't get into New York at all, but with Blaine there to comfort him and his own revised essays to bolster his confidence, he was able to get through it all in one piece. And then all he had had to worry about were the holidays.

Which had meant buying a gift for Blaine, who was currently sleeping on the couch with one arm draped over his eyes and the other threaded through a blanket, curled partially into a ball. He had insisted on as little physical contact with Kurt and the rest of his family as possible to hopefully prevent the spread of his illness to anyone else.

Carole, a nurse by profession, had assured him that there were so many varieties of colds and flus being spread around that it would be a miracle if they all escaped some form of illness or another and it wouldn't be Blaine's fault if they did get sick. He didn't seem too encouraged by this assessment, sulkily insisting that Kurt not sit next to him on the couch or stay in the same room with him if he could help it. Ideally, it seemed, Blaine wanted to quarantine himself, to put himself out of reach of everyone so he could heal in peace and solitude, but Kurt was not having any of it. Blaine was suffering, and that meant that Kurt had to do something, whether or not Blaine approved.

So he brought him glasses of water for his sore throat and medicine at regular intervals, despite Blaine's insistence that he didn't have to deplete the family's supply over him. Blaine was part of their family, and Kurt had not hesitated to tell him as much while firmly pressing the tablets into his palm, insisting that he needed them and no, Kurt wasn't going to give in on that point. Although grumbling about how he would be fine on his own, Blaine had taken the pills and seemed somewhat more relaxed once they had started to take effect, even falling asleep for a couple hours before inevitably the illness woke him up again, dry, wracking coughs seeming to resonate through the silence.

After enduring it for nearly half the afternoon, Kurt finally relocated his iPod dock from his car into the living room and turned it on, letting the sounds of Christmas music soothe him. It was comforting, the combination of light snowfall outside and soft snores from Blaine and the occasional crackle of the fireplace in front of him, all put together under a whimsical blanket of sound. Kurt had half-wanted to wake Blaine just so he could teasingly reiterate their previous Baby, It's Cold Outside duet when that number came on, but he resisted, humming along to the track and following thereon with every other track.

Blaine had awoken again some time later, seeming startled that Kurt was still there, even more puzzled by the noise that he quickly deduced as Christmas music coming from Kurt's iPod. After raising his eyebrows in mock-inquiry, he had lifted himself into a half-seated position and leaned back against the pillow, eyeing Kurt with uncertain eyes, his hands fidgeting slightly with themselves. Kurt, for his part, did an excellent job of looking disinterestedly at his book, pretending that he had no awareness of Blaine's presence, whatsoever. When Blaine cleared his throat slightly, however, Kurt couldn't pretend he wasn't there, and he lifted his gaze in polite disbelief when Blaine smiled slightly sheepishly at him.

"Thank you," he had said in a hoarse voice thickened with sleep. Kurt had shrugged a little, his cheeks reddening somewhat without his permission, before sinking back down in his own armchair to consider his college list.

Looking at Blaine now, the image of misery and loneliness, Kurt snapped his notebook shut silently and rose from his chair, stretching his arms languorously above his head as he did so. Blaine didn't stir, just continued to breathe deeply, in and out, a slight rasp on the end of every breath, seeming to be drawing in less than he had when he was healthy and resting peacefully. Kurt sidled over to him and, after determining that he was definitely asleep (a quick brush of the fingertips against Blaine's ribs was sufficient to prove the point), sat down on the opposite side of the couch, waiting. It took almost twenty minutes of shuffling and twisting and turning and finally gentle guiding on Kurt's part before Blaine was lying against him, still snoring slightly but seeming more at ease than before, his hand curled in the front of Kurt's shirt while Kurt stroked his ungelled hair lightly.

And he really would have to have a talk with Blaine about how much product he was allowed to put in his hair, because it was so, so much softer right now than it ever was when he used gel on it. He understood that it was part of a security measure, a simple act that allowed Blaine some measure of control that he usually didn't have with everyone tugging him in different directions, yet Kurt liked that his hair curled slightly when it wasn't plastered to his head, and he hoped to show Blaine that he could learn to like it, too.

It wasn't until his legs were starting to tingle from being trapped under Blaine's weight for so long that Kurt realized any time had passed at all as he kept up his rhythmic stroking, glancing at the clock and realizing that it was almost three o'clock. Finn was out with Puck and Mike practicing football plays (why in the dead of winter, Kurt didn't know, but he knew better than to question his real motives, either, since it usually involved copious amounts of video-gaming), and Kurt's dad wouldn't be home until nearly seven after he had closed up shop for the holidays.

It was Christmas Eve, which meant that virtually everyone in Lima, Ohio was preparing for the holiday, businesses wrapping up for the day. Carole would probably be out late, too (she was a registered nurse, which meant that her schedule sometimes varied around the holiday seasons), which invariably meant Kurt was responsible for holding down the fort, so to speak.

Glad that insofar his task was no more difficult than sorting through college papers and keeping Blaine company, Kurt nearly leaped out of his skin when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He hurried -- as gently as he could -- to retrieve it, doing his best not to jostle Blaine in the process, who barely stirred at the commotion. Kurt unlocked the screen to see that it was Mercedes texting, quickly hitting the view now button and reading the message.

Still alive?

He frowned slightly, confused, and typed out a quick, Yes, why? before rubbing one hand lightly along Blaine's back.

A pause, then another buzz, this time held away so that the vibrations wouldn't disturb Blaine. You haven't been answering my texts, Mercedes replied.

Oh. Kurt smiled sheepishly, wondering how she would respond if she knew that he hadn't been paying attention because he had been too busy taking care of his poor sick boyfriend.

Sorry, 'Cedes, he wrote back. I lost track of time.

Another pause, shorter this time. Hmm. Is 'distraction' your euphemism for having sex with Blaine now?

Mercedes! Kurt scolded, blushing furiously and glad that Blaine couldn't see it. Perhaps the most mortifying aspect of it was that he and Blaine had actually talked about how far they wanted their relationship to go and what was allowed and what was off-limits. Mostly they had agreed to the same things, which helped to avoid the majority of awkward conversations about limits and boundaries and other basic rules, yet there were still plenty of gray areas that had yet been untouched and unexplored. They didn't speak on those topics because they didn't know what the implications would mean for their relationship if they followed through with actually saying those things. While they had hinted at sex, they had never actually come to any conclusive decisions about it, either for or against having it.

I want you to be comfortable, Blaine had told him simply, shrugging, when Kurt had asked why he never seemed to have an urge to 'rip off Kurt's clothes,' as he had embarrassingly admitted during one such conversation. So I can be comfortable, he had added, when Kurt had just given him a look that asked, plain and simple, Why?

Because no matter how wonderful Blaine could be or how slow and sweet he handled things with their relationship, there were still definite moments of doubt that Kurt had wondering how on earth he could possibly settle for such a 'boring' relationship. At least, compared to those at McKinley, Kurt allowed. He knew that outside of McKinley there were other standards as well, other couples that defined the general trends, yet here, in Lima, Ohio, it seemed that having sex was a fundamental next-step in advancing a high school relationship.

You're the one who wants this to last forever, a cynical voice had pointed out when he shied away from discussing it further. You should be leaping at this opportunity, if there is one.

But part of him was just genuinely afraid that Blaine would say no and then he would be left awkward and uncertain and no longer confident in his ability to determine how they viewed things in their relationship. He didn't want to ruin what they had because he pushed too hard too soon on a topic that was intimate and invasive.

It would redefine their relationship and Kurt wanted that to be special, to mean something, and not just to be a milestone that had to be crossed for the sake of fitting in the couple high school stereotype at McKinley. He liked his and Blaine's relationship exactly where it was, and if sometimes he wondered where it would go if they decided to try more (and he couldn't deny that Blaine expressed similar curiosities at times, too, an awareness that was both a little bit frightening but also thrilling), then he was tentatively willing to take the risk and talk it out and maybe, maybe try it out.

Maybe.

Kuuurt. He blushed deeper as he realized that he hadn't responded to Mercedes' text, hastily punching out a message to the negative, almost hearing her amused laugh on the other side of the line.

Whatever you say, boo, was all she wrote. Miffed, Kurt was about to retort that that was all he meant, Mercedes replied with a separate text before he could. I don't know what you two are planning tomorrow, she began. But you're welcome to come visit if you want.

Kurt paused, hesitated because he felt slightly bad saying no -- Mercedes was one of his closest friends, after all -- before writing back, We can't. Blaine's sick. And no, that's no a euphemism.

A pause, then: Aww, poor baby. Send him my love. :)

Kurt rolled his eyes slightly to himself, resisting the urge to laugh, and answered, I'll let him know. What are you up to right now?

Baking Christmas cookies. :) They're not nearly as good as yours, though.

Hush. We're fabulous. We make nothing less than fabulous cookies, Kurt replied.

This time, he didn't even have to imagine her laughter as Mercedes wrote, Ha-ha in response. I almost burnt the first batch, she added.

Trial run, Kurt assured. I'm sure the rest will be amazing.

If you say so.

I know so.

He felt Blaine twitch slightly, stirring, groggily shifting so that his cheek was pressed against Kurt's chest at a slightly different angle, eyes still closed and breaths still fanning out in heavy, satisfied gusts.

Oh, crap. The cookies are burning again. Gotta go. Love you, Kurt. Merry Christmas if we don't talk again until afterwards. :)

Good luck! Merry Christmas to you, too, Mercedes.

Setting the phone aside, Kurt sighed slightly to himself as he let the awareness that tomorrow was Christmas sink in. Here he was, his first year with a boyfriend, celebrating their first Christmas together. It was amazing, almost surreal, yet the fact that Blaine was undeniably his made his heart warm and every fanboy instinct bred into him just want to jump up and down and let everyone know just how wonderful it was to be Kurt Hummel. Blaine Anderson loved Kurt Hummel, and no one else (not in the same way, at any rate, and certainly not as much), and that mattered more than anything else to him. He had someone to share the holidays with, to experience the joy and peacefulness of it all with, and that proved, irrevocably, that meeting Blaine was definitely one of the best things to ever happen in Kurt's life.

For more reasons than that, even, Kurt thought, his hands stilling as Blaine stirred a little more alertly, his eyes blinking owlishly as he looked at the material of Kurt's shirt, evidently baffled. Kurt gave him ten seconds or so to adjust before letting his hands glide across his back slightly, noticing that Blaine's eyes slid closed a moment later. A small smile crossed Kurt's face as he noticed that, humming slightly in contentment as he sank back against the couch.

This is where I want to be, he thought. Forever.

And even if it was impossible that they could stay there forever, it was still a lovely dream.

* * *

"Your parents don't mind that you're staying here for the holidays?"

Blaine shook his head, wishing that he looked a little less disheveled but unable to bring himself to his usual concern for his appearances. It was hard to care about anything when he was sick, mostly wanting nothing more than to crawl under the nearest rock and never emerge again. Still, he mustered a slight smile for Carole as he ran a hand over his hair in one vain attempt to smooth it. He had already known that it would be irredeemably messy without further intervention, but at the moment, he was just happy to be left alone and in peace, so he didn't bother voice any complaints about it. Besides, the Hudson-Hummels were generous enough to let him use their couch despite his sickness (and Carole's optimistic forecast that if they were going to get sick, it wouldn't be because of him). That was enough for him to keep his mouth shut and just be appreciative, rather than whine about the state of his hair.

"They're usually out of town around Christmas," he added in a slightly thick voice, sleep deepening it. "Dad has a lot of business meetings, and Mom tags along because she doesn't want to be 'alone' for the holidays." He shrugged, surprised at his own use of their pronouns, before mentally setting it aside. He was speaking with Carole, and that automatically changed his responses. He knew, after spending years with the Warblers and in the Dalton Academy environment in general, that it had affected him, changed him, for the better. One of those neutral changes was his ability to switch everything from his tone to word choice depending on who he was speaking to. Granted, everyone did so to an extent, but Blaine had perfected the art to the point of persuasion, reeling in his abilities until he was not only efficient but downright charismatic. Right now, however, he knew that he was lucky to come across as polite but ill, wishing that he could at least get the hoarseness to leave his voice.

Carole was frowning at him, he noticed, and he involuntarily looked down at his hands, half-expecting red paint. He had no idea what wrong-doing he had committed, but it was evident from her gaze that something was wrong, and his automatic response to that was to see if he was the source of the blame.

Of course, he thought grimly, because my parents were never wrong, either.

Part of the reason they had become so ostracized from one another was his own isolation, his own unwillingness to speak to anyone. He had effectively barricaded himself off from them, doing his best to immerse himself in the new world that was Dalton without carrying any of his previous baggage into it. The task wasn't easy -- particularly when people started to wonder where Blaine Anderson had come from when they realized it wasn't just a transferal from one of the local public schools to their prestigious private school -- but in the end he had managed to convince most people at Dalton that his past was boring and irrelevant, that he had never been bullied or harassed or anything of the sort, that he was just an ordinary transfer coming from a slightly farther point than normal. His parents had thought he was adapting and left him alone, but soon healthy separation became estrangement, and when circumstances felt overwhelming at Dalton, Blaine didn't turn to his parents for support. He kept it inward until eventually he snapped, shouting himself nearly hoarse when he told Wes that he couldn't keep prying into his freakin' life.

When things like that happened, Blaine didn't blame his parents, even though in retrospect he should have been upset at their lack of concern for him. There were no phone calls asking how he was doing at Dalton, no letters with anything more than tuition payments, no contact besides the tenuous relations penned on the transfer papers stating that Brian Anderson was his father and Emily his mother. They left him alone, and at the time he had been almost relieved to be left to his own devices, but when the situations had gotten heated as Blaine continued to withhold himself from everyone, he could have used a father figure to tell him what to do, or even just his mother saying that it would work out in the end. He had learned to be self-sufficient at Dalton, to not rely on other people even though he was innately part of their team, and he ironically mused that Dalton had perhaps split his personality more than any other institution had. He had wanted to retain his individuality when he entered the doors, and he had, even when it meant fighting his way to the top (sometimes literally). He had also wanted to be a part of something, to fit in somewhere, and he had done that also, and in the end, although the dual nature of the process was sometimes wearing, he was glad that he had not given up on either course. It was useful information for surviving McKinley, being able to live alone and in a group.

"So they just leave you alone?" Carole asked, breaking his reverie, sounding surprised and somewhat horrified.

"I usually spend the holidays at Dalton," Blaine said with a shrug. "It's not too bad: we decorate and set up the tree and exchange gifts and everything."

Of course, there weren't too many people that boarded at Dalton over the holiday break, and so Blaine usually found ways to spend every day but Christmas itself with other friends not boarding. There was decorating that took place and gift-exchanging on Christmas for those few that had stayed behind and actually celebrated the holiday, but for the majority of boys that stayed for the holidays, it was mostly an excuse to catch up on their studies in peace. Celebrating Christmas with people who didn't particularly care wasn't exactly Blaine's idea of a good time, but he wasn't about to complain. Dalton had amazing Christmas feasts, for the few that stayed behind to enjoy them, and overall it was pleasant to just find a book, curl up on a couch, settle down with his iPod and enjoy the peacefulness around him. Compared to the usual chaos, it had almost been refreshing, although still not exactly his idea of a holiday.

Carole was eyeing him as though she thought the same, he realized, and he flushed slightly under the scrutiny, looking aside. He had his legs tucked underneath him as he leaned against the arm of the couch, watching the fire crackle absently as he thought. Looking up at her fully, he saw that her gaze was a mixture of sympathetic and sad, and he almost stumbled over his words as he spoke, wanting to placate it.

"It really wasn't that bad," he said. "It's not like I regretted spending my Christmases there or anything."

"You could have come spend it with us last year," Carole said, sitting in one of the arm chairs, a hand balanced on her knee thoughtfully as she looked at the fire briefly, too. He wondered what she saw but didn't ask, knowing better than to intrude. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Blaine shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal?" he tried, wincing when it came out as a question. "Honestly, I had a really big crush on Kurt and wasn't sure how you three would react about coming over to your house so soon after we'd met each other." That much, at least, was true. Even when Blaine had paced anxiously, the idea making his hands tingle with anticipation before he inevitably retreated without making the offer, all that had been on his mind at the time was how to handle the latest developments with Kurt. Namely, his undeniable attraction to said boy, in more ways than one. "I didn't want to impose," he finished. "It wasn't my place to ask, and I didn't want you to feel pressured to accept if you knew."

He winced inwardly at that, knowing that it sounded like he had been suffering alone and hadn't want to mention it, but he didn't bother try and correct it. Knowing his luck, he would just blurt out something else about not celebrating things with his parents, how they enjoyed the holidays without really participating in them. They were in their own worlds, governed by their own thoughts and affected only by the people they deemed worthy of intervention. Everyone else was an extra, a prop, in some regards, not worthy of greater attention or inspection. Sometimes Blaine thought he fit into this category better than he did family, if only because he communicated with them less frequently than most of his father's business clients.

Stop moping, he chastised himself. Those days are over.

It was true -- if nothing else, he was spending Christmas here with the Hudson-Hummels and next year, hopefully, he would be spending it in New York with Kurt -- and that thought boosted his mood tremendously. Even if he did have to be sick right before Christmas, he was grateful to be in good company than spending it curled up in a ball on his dorm room bed waiting for the worst to pass so he could function again. Somehow just being around people who were still alive and energetic was helpful; he felt more comforted by their presence than he had thought possible, just grateful to be around other people rather than holed up in some dark corner.

"Well," Carole said at last, sensing his introspective mood, perhaps, and only interrupting when the silence began to deepen, "you're always welcome here. Especially for holidays," she added. "No one should spend Christmas alone."

He opened his mouth to say that he hadn't spent them alone, per se, because there had been other people around him, but he shut it without a word, nodding slightly. He had chosen to be alone than because the alternative -- spending time with people who would rather engross themselves in Thoreau or Dostoevsky -- was no better.

"Thank you," he said at last, his voice slightly thick for a different reason, grateful that the hoarseness covered it.

* * *

Eleven o'clock, Christmas Eve. Blaine stared at the clock, his hands folded underneath his head, elbows perched on his knees as he waited, one leg jittering uncontrollably. There was a restless sort of anticipation building in him, knowing that in less than an hour it would be Christmas, his first Christmas with his boyfriend and with the Hudson-Hummels. It was a prospect that both excited and even somewhat terrified him. What if Kurt didn't like his present? What if he thought it was too much? What if he didn't want Blaine to be his boyfriend anymore, for being so imperceptive that he couldn't even find him a suitable Christmas present?

Valentine's day had never been this hard, he thought, because a scarf sufficed with Kurt, making him happy and giving him new designing material to work with. On Christmas, however, Blaine wasn't simply giving him a scarf that he could use on virtually any occasion and still make look classy and appropriate. No, he had set his sights on a different field entirely, and he was anxious to see whether or not Kurt would like his decision (or, worse, reject it). The latter made him nervous enough that, as soon as Carole had left, he had gotten up and made himself a cup of tea to try and calm himself, which had only succeeded in making him more jittery and restless than before.

Still, buried underneath the anxiety was a sort of eager anticipation that overwhelmingly dominated his thoughts as he tried to imagine how Kurt would react. At least three scenarios involved Kurt rejecting the present outright, two where he waited a few days before trying to break the news gently to Blaine that his gift had been awful, and a dozen other half-formed situations where Kurt would somehow dislike the present and realize it was the end of their relationship. There was still one glorious image of acceptance, however, and despite his fear for the multitude of ways it could go wrong, Blaine was still hopeful that Kurt would actually like the present.

Then again, he thought, panicking slightly as he fingered the box, unable to stop fiddling with it, what if this turned out to be another Jeremiah-worthy incident where he completely overshot the mark and instead ended up upsetting -- or worse, embarrassing -- Kurt? What if he felt like he had to somehow reciprocate, pressured into offering a similar gift that he had had no way of foreseeing beforehand? Blaine watched the clock and clutched the box tightly, wishing that he could just know that Kurt would like it and put his mutinous thoughts to rest. He was almost certain he would -- almost -- but that wasn't to say that he didn't still have his doubts about it.

This was a huge deal, a big step in their relationship, and Kurt's reaction was pivotal in the outcome. Perhaps that was why Blaine was so worried about it, even though he was fairly confident that Kurt would like it. Kurt's acceptance would affect everything about their relationship from then on, whereas his rejection just might crush it. Gripping the box tightly, hands clasped and leg still bouncing, he breathed a deep sigh of relief as the clock ticked upward another notch, settling on a quarter-to-midnight. He hadn't realized his musings had taken up so much time, but he was glad for them, in a way, even if they weren't exactly good on his nerves. Two days of rest and recovery had definitely helped him by way of health, and he was optimistic that as long as he could get some sleep some time tonight, he would be almost normal tomorrow. The problem was getting to sleep, and with only ten minutes to go until Christmas, he doubted that he was any closer to it than before.

Pushing himself to his feet with a sudden energy, he picked up his phone and walked over to the kitchen table, sinking down into one of the chairs and staring at the screen in blank silence for several moments. He had no idea what had possessed him to grab it, but almost with the same thoughtless knowing he waited, looking at the clock as the numbers crept slowly, steadily upward, until at last--

12:00 AM.

Christmas.

He flipped through his phone, smiling slightly to himself, some of his nerves evaporating at the mere thought that it was Christmas. He found the number that he was looking for and wrote, Merry Christmas, turning the phone off and sticking it in his pocket before the person could respond. Right then, he didn't want a response, didn't want any sort of potential sorrow to ruin his mood. A lack of response would have been just as painful, too, so he made it deliberate by turning off his phone, laughing slightly at himself as he picked up the little red box and stowed it under the tree.

Walking over to the stairs and climbing them, he knocked lightly on the door jamb to Kurt's room, waiting for the soft grunt of affirmation before pushing it open and stepping inside. Kurt was rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he reached over to turn on the light but Blaine, taking pity on the fact that he had just woken him, stopped his hand before he could fumble the light switch on and caught it, holding it between both of his own. "Merry Christmas," he whispered softly.

Kurt hummed, scooting around so that there was a cleared space where Blaine usually slept (Kurt had apparently stolen it in his absence, a thought that warmed Blaine's heart inexplicably). Blaine hesitated before Kurt tugged him forward slightly patting the bed with his other hand. With a slight chuckle, Blaine slid down and cuddled close, invading Kurt's personal space and resting his head on his shoulder, reveling in everything about Kurt.

He was soft but not in a feminine way, his devotion to skin care definitely paying off in the long run. Sometimes Blaine wondered how it was possible that he could even tolerate holding hands with Blaine's own rough, untreated ones (by comparison, of course; not that Blaine deliberately performed menial work to worsen his appearance). Kurt didn't even flinch when Blaine rested his forehead against his collarbone, however, his fingers rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his knuckles. A low hum of contentment escaped him, almost a purr that Blaine felt rather than heard, and he smiled slightly, wishing that he could just lean up and kiss him but knowing that he wouldn't, not when it would mean giving Kurt his sickness.

"Merry Christmas," Kurt answered sleepily. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Blaine murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone -- through the shirt -- that made Kurt smile.

* * *

Kurt awoke alone.

He stretched languorously, looking over at his clock and smiling slightly. Six AM, Christmas morning. Finally. While he had been nervous and uncertain for days in advance, it was like everything fell into place on Christmas day itself. Blaine would love his gift. He would. Going through his morning routine in record time, Kurt fidgeted anxiously as he applied the last of his skin cares creams, unable to stop himself from grinning as he cast glances over his shoulder at the door. Less than twenty feet away, his boyfriend was downstairs, probably asleep, completely oblivious that it was their first Christmas together.

Kurt almost bounced on his feet as he dug out the box, strategically hidden in his closet where Blaine wouldn't accidentally find it. He had wrapped it -- along with dozens of other presents -- on the twenty-third while they were watching the PBS Christmas special. They had laughed at themselves, pointing out quirky things about each other's appearances and not caring. Blaine's lines ultimately won out as more cheesy, but, as Blaine loftily pointed out, Kurt overwhelmingly had the cheesier gestures, including his tone of voice, which made Blaine burst out laughing every third line regardless of what he had said. The Justin Timberlake comment had had them both in stitches, Kurt having to pause in his present wrapping in order to recover his control.

It didn't help that Blaine still laughed at everything, usually causing Kurt to laugh simply because it was contagious. It was then that he had resolved to make Blaine laugh more often, because it really wasn't that hard (he laughed at Kurt's antics on screen all the time) and it was so, so worth it. Even sledding had been worthwhile for seeing Blaine so happy and energetic and alive. It was like high school didn't even exist, a side story that occasionally contributed but didn't affect his overall personality.

Kurt smiled wryly to himself as he thought of that, considering how much high school had affected them both, before steeling himself and, present in hands, walking out the door towards the stairs.

As expected, Blaine was lying on the couch, one arm draped over the end as he slept. Kurt smiled as he set the box down behind the arm of the couch and knelt down beside Blaine, brushing his hand once along Blaine's arm. The latter stirred and blinked blearily, grinning up at Kurt as he sat up slowly before wrapping his arms around him. "Good morning, beautiful," he said, nuzzling Kurt's cheek. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too," Kurt said, smiling. "Sleep well?"

"Mmhm," Blaine said, disentangling himself reluctantly, huffing at Kurt's already flawless visage before taking stock of his own unkempt appearance. "Hmph," he said.

"What?" Kurt asked, amused, knowing fully well what was bothering him.

Blaine just shook his head and nodded at the tree, Kurt's gaze following as he grinned at the stock of presents underneath. There was a note with his name on it pinned midway up the tree, though, just at eye-level, and he lifted an eyebrow slightly as he walked over to it, plucking it off. He could almost feel the nervous excitement radiating off Blaine as he opened it, just a simple slip of paper with only three words: Turn around, beautiful.

He turned, and nearly lost all the feeling in his legs as he realized that Blaine was holding a little red box and--

Oh my God.

That basically summed it up.

"Don't freak out," Blaine said, nervous and quick but still holding out the box invitingly, Kurt staring at it because -- oh. my. God.

Knowing that he had no other choice but to take it, he reached out and picked it up delicately, staring at Blaine the whole time. One eyebrow arched, frozen in surprise, Kurt looked down at the box for the first time. And yes, there was no mistaking what it was, and the realization just made Kurt's heart race as he slowly, so slowly, pulled the lid open. The red cover gave way to a silver ring, and Kurt's hand flew to his mouth in shock, because Blaine had gotten him a ring.

"Oh my God," he said aloud, his voice a whisper. "Blaine. . . ."

"It's a promise ring," Blaine said, Kurt's hand dropping as he cradled the ring box, unable to believe -- unable to fathom -- that his I'm not good at romance boyfriend had bought him a promise ring.

Not good at romance my ass, he thought, and then nearly burst out laughing, which would probably have killed Blaine right then so he just clamped down on that voice and looked at Blaine, wide-eyed and stunned.

"I know that in less than a year we won't be in high school anymore," Blaine said softly, looking alternately between the box and Kurt's face, trying to better understand his reaction. Kurt tried to look encouraging but mostly he was just stunned speechless. It must have been sufficient, as Blaine smiled a little before shrugging in a self-deprecating way, one hand wrapped arm his own upper arm supportively. "I want you to know that I'm not going to stop wanting to be with you just because this part of our lives is over. I want to be with you, Kurt, for as long as I can, and this . . ." he looked at Kurt, then the ring, and said simply, "this is my promise to you. To be with you for as long as you'll have me. Because as long as you have that, I'll never say goodbye to you."

Hearing his own words seemed to finally pull Kurt from his trance as he pulled the ring from its box carefully. He looked at it, rolling it gently between his fingers to see it from every angle, before glancing up at Blaine and wordlessly holding it out. Blaine looked momentarily wounded, his expression seeming to freeze as he stared at the ring before looking at up Kurt's face. And then he relaxed, seeing the warmth and brightness in Kurt's expression.

Kurt asked, "Do you . . . ?" and Blaine said, "Yes," taking the ring and gently sliding it into place on Kurt's left ring finger. His eyes were bright (Kurt was certain his were as well). He just let his hand rest over top of Kurt's for several long moments, basking. Then Kurt swept him up into a hard hug, practically crushing him, and said in a breathless, almost lofty tone, "It'll do," which made Blaine laugh as he hugged him back, shaking with a mixture of laughter and relief.

Pulling away after several moments, Kurt just looked at his ring and smiled, half-wondering what the rest of the school would say when they saw it. What they would think of him and Blaine, and how it would change their image in school. Whether the jocks would think it was disgusting or just ignore it or try and take it away. Kurt smiled, running his thumb lightly against it, and thought defiantly, I don't care. I'm wearing this.

"Thank you," he whispered, reaching down and giving Blaine's hand a hard squeeze. He squeezed his hand back, smiling softly, his gaze lingering on the ring briefly.

"It looks beautiful on you," he said simply.

"It does," Kurt agreed, beaming. "And now I can, in full confidence, give you this."

He walked over to the end of the couch and picked up the small box, watching Blaine's eyes light up with interest as he accepted the box. He looked at Kurt, momentarily stupefied that Kurt would see need to buy him a present at all (can't you see that just having you here is enough for me? was so clear in his eyes it almost hurt), but he peeled the ribbon away with eager fingers and unraveled the paper, looking at the cardboard box underneath. He sat down on the couch, inviting Kurt to sit beside him, who did so after a moment's hesitation, leaning away from Blaine slightly, trying to gauge his reaction.

He tugged open the box carefully and smiled, pulling out the watch carefully. "Kurt," he said, smiling, looking up at him. It was classier than most watches Kurt would have bought for any of his other friends and more durable, something that he wouldn't have bothered with for Mercedes or anyone else because they wouldn't have been able to appreciate it (and would consequently break it through sheer accidental mishap at the first opportunity). Blaine was more careful, though, and Kurt knew that it was the right choice as he saw how his expression brightened, fingers already moving to put it on.

"Turn it over," he whispered, Blaine's expression slightly puzzled as he obeyed. Kurt closed his eyes, already knowing what it said, not sure if he could look and see the disappointment cross Blaine's expression if he knew and didn't like it.

11.9.10

"That was the day you changed my life," Kurt said at last, hands clasped together tightly, looking over at Blaine's face, which was filled with a shock and awe that was flattering and also slightly unnerving. Did that meant he . . . liked it? Didn't like it? Didn't know what it meant? The last was perhaps the worst, as it would show that Kurt had been obsessing way too early on and had probably spooked Blaine with the fact that he still remembered the first day they met.

But Blaine just looked at it, his smile deepening and softening somehow, thumb brushing underneath the numbers delicately. "Kurt, this is . . . it's perfect," he breathed, running his thumb softly over the engraving. "I love it." Then, turning, he wrapped his arms around Kurt a second time and said, very seriously, "I love you. I'm never going to forget, but this . . . I love it. I almost hate to put it on," he laughed, fingering the watch indecisively, "because I won't be able to see that."

"You'll see it when you take it off," Kurt pointed out, smiling slightly himself, pressing a kiss to Blaine's cheek. Sickness be damned. "I'm glad you like it."

"Love it," Blaine corrected, staring at the numbers with the same beaming expression, eventually turning it over to clasp it around his wrist carefully.

Kurt smiled at him, resting his head on Blaine's shoulder. "It looks good on you," he told him.

"Hmm," Blaine hummed, rubbing his thumb lightly over Kurt's ring. "I love you."

"So you've said," Kurt teased.

Blaine looked at him, playfully challenging, before leaning over and kissing him with a loud mwah. "You're welcome," he added, brushing their noses together in an Eskimo kiss while Kurt pretended to scrunch up his face in disgust. "And if you get sick, I'll buy you all the coffee you want."

"You better," Kurt warned, looking at Blaine and unable to stop a slight smiling from curling his lips. "Merry Christmas," he said simply.

"Merry Christmas," Blaine agreed, smiling.

* * *

Kurt and Blaine spent a full hour alone reveling in each other's company before Finn made his appearance.

He tromped down the stairs looking surprisingly alert, sighting Kurt and Blaine on the couch together and immediately zeroing in on the glint of silver on Kurt's finger. Kurt knew this because he missed the final step and face-planted spectacularly at the bottom, leaping back to his feet with a squawk of, "Holy shit, you proposed?" in Blaine's direction.

It brought Kurt's dad and Carole downstairs fairly quickly, whether by the tremors from Finn hitting the ground or his exclamation, Kurt didn't know. Either way, he hastened to assure Finn that no, Blaine had not proposed, he had given him a promise ring. After much confusion, Finn finally grasped that a promise ring was still different than an engagement ring and seemed to relax, accepting it as just another thing that Kurt and Blaine did that he wouldn't understand. Which, Kurt supposed, was definitely the easiest explanation, so he accepted it without protest.

He and Blaine had joint-gifted on Finn, buying him the latest version of Call of Duty after much deliberation about whether or not it would just encourage Finn's video-gaming habit. Immediately, Finn leaped up, swearing happily as he set up the game system, and Kurt leaned against Blaine's shoulder contentedly, glad to have successfully made two people happy on Christmas, at least. Finn was so happy he literally yanked Kurt up and off the couch into a hug, his ribs creaking until Finn let him go. He picked Blaine up, the latter just going with it until Finn set him down.

"I think he likes it," Blaine muttered breathlessly to Kurt, massaging his ribs as Finn jumped onto the nearest arm chair and started setting up the game.

"Just remember, I said we should have gotten him a new shovel," Kurt said in a sing-song voice, smirking.

"This is freakin' amazing. You two effin' rock. I . . . shit, look at that. I gotta call Puck!" he said suddenly, leaping to his feet with controller still in hand.

"Hold on, tiger," Kurt's dad said, catching him with a hand on his shoulder. "There's more presents, too, you know."

"Oh. Yeah. Cool," Finn said, deflating a little as he returned to the pile. "Oh!" he said suddenly, digging through the gifts frantically, paying no regard to the fragility of any of the presents around him. Kurt saw his dad wince once, probably thinking that at least some of those had to be breakable, but he just emerged a few seconds later with two gifts in hand. "Here," he said, tossing them to Kurt and Blaine. "Merry Christmas, dudes. Those are from Rachel and me. Oh, shit, she's going to kill me. Be right back!" He darted off into the kitchen, calling Rachel quickly and nodding along with whatever she was saying before adding, "Bye" perfunctorily at the end and hanging up. "She's coming in like, six minutes. So don't open those," he said, looking between Kurt and Blaine sternly as though they would do so just to defy him.

It was worthwhile to have Rachel around, even though she brought a veritable mountain load of presents behind her, apparently on a mission to deliver them to every glee club member before the day was out. She waited, Kurt and Blaine exchanging a slightly nervous look as they looked at the small boxes. They didn't look poisonous, but with Rachel Berry, one never knew. Her excitement was certainly as much that Kurt wouldn't be surprised if she had gotten them both lethal presents just to vent some of her feelings.

They weren't lethal, and Blaine laughed as soon as he pulled the lid off his own, holding up the bowtie covered in Christmas trees for general inspection. "This is great," he laughed, while Kurt stared at his own bowtie in surprise. It was a simple shade of red, something that Kurt foresaw himself wearing in shirts, perhaps, if not bowties. Bowties were Blaine's thing but, as soon as Blaine caught sight of his own, he laughed even harder, insisting on putting it on for Kurt, who tried to swat his hands and say that he knew how to but losing the argument in the end as Blaine was much faster. "Perfect," he said with a grin.

"Let's see yours," Kurt retorted, yanking it out of his hands and putting it on Blaine before he could get in a protest. Blaine beamed and kept his hands at his sides, unprotesting, before laughing again at Kurt.

"Thank you," he told Finn and Rachel, the latter snapping a picture with her phone that made Kurt squawk and leap up from the couch with surprising agility, chasing her into the kitchen and nearly overturning the table in the process of wrestling the camera back. "They're great."

"Cool," Finn said, beaming proudly, accepting the slightly less dangerous hug that Blaine gave him as a result. Blaine waited for Kurt to finish arguing with Rachel before wrapping her in a hug as well, telling her that he would make Kurt wear the bowtie to school at least once, overruling Kurt's loud protests that he would not. Kurt told him that he would shred every last one of Blaine's bowties if he so much as spoke of the red bowtie, Blaine grinning and keeping his mouth shut.

Once Rachel had left, Mercedes arrived within the hour, followed by Puck, who immediately situated himself on the floor beside Finn and took up the second controller. "Merry Christmas, boys," Mercedes told them, handing Kurt and Blaine their presents despite their mild protests that she didn't have to. She laughed when they gave her their present, insisting that they were both hypocrites.

Over the rest of the day, they exchanged gifts with dozens of other friends, the noise of Finn and Puck on the video game offering a comforting domesticity to the scene. When at last the tree had been cleared and it was mid-afternoon, Carole told them that dinner would be ready soon. Kurt and Blaine immediately moved to help with the process of getting Christmas dinner together, repelled by Carole shaking her head and saying that she was basically finished already and they should go have fun. Since that was what they had been doing all day, they smiled and worked around her, setting the table and helping move dishes around, working together in their own comfortable quiet, trading conversation back and forth about the latest hot topics in the fashion world, a familiar exercise. When at last everything was ready and they were all settled around the table -- Puck had left after thumping Finn one last time on the shoulder with his fist and promises to return as soon as possible -- Kurt sat down beside Blaine and smiled, feeling like everything was just right for once.

And when they lay on the couch together hours later, so full that they could barely stand, Kurt just smiled at Blaine, intertwining their hands lightly.

"I love you," he whispered against Blaine's wrist, not caring about Carole and his dad still in the kitchen, or Finn sorting through his presents.

"I love you," Blaine murmured in reply, kissing the top of his head with a smile.

And for all of the worry, all of the stress, all of the pandemonium that had otherwise dominated the season, Kurt was happy that it had culminated to this.

Each other.

That was what it had all been about, really: impressing the other and reaffirming where they stood, what they wanted to be, what would happen to them.

We'll be okay, Kurt thought, resting his head against Blaine's chest and closing his eyes, running his thumb lightly along the back of Blaine's knuckles.

We'll make it through all of this. We're still together now.

We'll be okay.


	51. Chapter 51

"Happy New Year," Kurt whispered, smiling as he rested his chin in the middle of Blaine's back. The latter sighed slightly, his arms wrapped around a pillow that was firmly tucked over his head after Kurt's previous attempts to wake him up at six in the morning (after finally relenting to go shower and work on his morning routine before returning an hour later for a second attempt). His breaths were still deep and even but Kurt knew he was awake, smiling slightly to himself as he tilted his head downward just enough to press a kiss against his t-shirt. "What are we going to do now?"

"Sleep?" came the muffled, hopeful reply, Kurt laughing slightly, as he draped his arms comfortably around, lying perpendicular to Blaine. He folded his arms and kicked his feet up in the air, ankles crossed casually as he tapped out a light rhythm against Blaine's ribcage, feeling him shift a little at the feather-light pressure.

"That's what we did last year," Kurt said, grinning as he found a particularly sensitive spot over the upper part of Blaine's ribs and brushing just so that he squirmed and batted a hand half-heartedly at Kurt's arm in retaliation. "Isn't there anything new you want to experience this year?"

"Like what?" Again muffled, but Kurt thought there was at least a little more coherence to it, a little more awareness, at any rate. He smiled to himself, pulling out his phone and texting Mercedes, feeling Blaine's curiosity practically radiating off him. "Kurt?" He sounded slightly nervous, pulling the pillow off his head and trying to shift around to see who Kurt was talking to. Or more accurately, writing to, but it was the first day of a new year and Kurt wasn't about to deal with technicalities. Of course, with Kurt's weight settled on the middle of his back, he didn't make much progress in the spying department, only managing to crane his neck around a little before dropping his head in defeat, the slight whumph of the pillow making Kurt laugh in spite of himself.

"If this is another shopping trip, just know that my limit is four hours of indentured servitude."

"You make it sound like it's such a bad thing," Kurt said, rolling his eyes to himself as he sent off the text. He looked over at where Blaine had face-planted and chuckled, his hair flyaway and curly. "Your hair's eccentric this morning."

Blaine was still for a moment before reaching up a hand slowly to feel his head, groaning slightly as he encountered dozens of small curls. "Oh, God. It's hideous, I know."

"You just think it's hideous because it's not a gel helmet," Kurt quipped, shooing his hand away with nimble fingers. "But see, I kind of like it this way, and I would appreciate if you didn't plaster it to your skull every morning."

"How could you like it this way?" Blaine asked incredulously, lifting his head just slightly from the pillow so his words were slightly more comprehensible. "I mean, it's just a -- oh. Mmm." He tilted his head slightly into Kurt's fingers had started stroking the slight curls at the base of his neck, a deep, satisfied hum escaping him. "I might be open to reform," he said at last, Kurt retracting his hand with a last gentle tug of remonstrance to look at the text as his phone buzzed.

Happy New Year to you too, boo! :) Busy on Saturday?

"Hey," Blaine whined, harrumphing, and Kurt bopped him lightly on the head instead, firing off a quick, No, but I might be. What's the occasion?

"You're so demanding."

"You started it," Blaine grumbled, shifting so that he could attempt to sit up once more. Kurt sighed and relented, rocking back onto his heels before settling on his haunches. Blaine sat up fully and stretched, kicking at the covers still tangled around his feet. "So what's the amazing plan for the New Year?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes and self-consciously lifting a hand to flatten his hair, a reflexive gesture more than anything.

Kurt hummed and said nothing, looking intently at his iPhone screen and purposefully ignoring the curious look Blaine gave him. He yelped and nearly toppled off the bed when Blaine growled and tackled him, reaching for the phone.

"You're -- terrible," Kurt huffed, laughing at the fact that he still had longer arms and yes, it absolutely came in handy sometimes. Blaine growled and wrapped his arms tightly around Kurt's, pinning them to his sides. It still didn't let him see the text, but it also meant Kurt couldn't move or see the text, either. With a sigh, Kurt said, "Let me up and I'll tell you?" and scowled when Blaine just shook his head, clearly fighting a grin.

"Fine," he quipped, tossing the phone to the middle of the bed. Blaine spent one moment clinging to Kurt stupidly before pouncing on the phone, scrolling through the texts until he found the most recent ones and blinking in surprise.

"Really? You didn't even tell her your plans yet?" he said, handing the phone back and rolling his eyes. "You're so mean to me."

"Poor baby," Kurt cooed, ruffling his hair as he stood up and walked with the phone towards the door. "You'll just have to wait and see," he called over his shoulder as he trotted downstairs, leaving Blaine to mull over the possibilities alone.

His dad was already awake and crunching down on a piece of toast, looking over a stack of papers determinedly at the kitchen table. Evidence of a Finn morning breakfast raid was also present in the crumbs scattered around the counters and boxes of cereal half-heartedly replaced in their original spots on the shelves. Noting the sounds of Finn already engaged in his Call of Duty in the living room, Kurt shook his head to himself as he started on a pot of coffee, gratefully pouring himself a cup ten minutes later.

Blaine emerged a mere ten minutes after that, sparing one inquiring glance in Finn's direction before looking in the kitchen and smiling at Kurt. He sauntered over and casually draped his arm around Kurt's waist in a good morning hug before noticing Kurt's dad's presence and leaping back as though scalded. Kurt laughed, his dad grunting once in the background to acknowledge the incident and grant his overarching seal of As long as you're happy, I'm not going to say anything approval. Blaine still kept his distance as he meandered around the kitchen foraging for scraps, Kurt stopping him before he could pull anything off its shelf.

"Uh uh," he said lightly. "Clearly you haven't ever been on one of our famous New Year brunch spectaculars."

"Brunch?" Blaine repeated, looking at the clock and seeming tempted to let out a groan of exasperation, only censoring himself because of Kurt's dad's continuing presence. He cast a pointed look in his direction, wordlessly signaling to Kurt his woes, before shuffling out of the kitchen, Kurt following after a moment's thoughts. "How am I supposed to survive until then?" he asked. "It's nine-fifteen."

"We're not waiting until noon," Kurt said, already texting Mercedes the details as he plopped down casually on the couch. Blaine hesitated before sitting down next to him, Finn still lost in his own world in an armchair in front of the TV. "We're leaving in an hour."

Blaine frowned, evidently confused. "But that's only--"

"Trust me, it'll be brunch when we're done," Kurt assured, patting his arm in a placating way. Blaine shook his head slightly, leaning over to look at the text Kurt was writing only to see that he had sent it, sighing in fond exasperation.

"Is this the 'let's not tell Blaine what's going on' sort of plan?" he asked at last.

Kurt grinned wolfishly. "Maybe. But if you're really good I might even let you pick the stores we go to later."

Blaine's groan actually made Finn look over briefly from his game before realizing that it was one of despair, his attention quickly diverting back to zombie-slaying once he saw everything was fine.

* * *

Two hours later, Blaine had to admit that if this was how Kurt wanted to celebrate New Year's, then he was perfectly okay with that. Better than okay, even, as he savored the lingering hints of honey on his tongue from his English muffin. The restaurant was just casual enough that he didn't feel intimidated by it (taking Kurt on actual dates was still a rather bizarre process only complicated by the fact that they already went out together more times than they could count on supposedly 'not dates'), and Mercedes' presence help keep the atmosphere even more relaxed and calm. There were few other patrons around, ensuring that they didn't have to worry about noisy neighbors, a pleasant respite from the usual mayhem in their lives.

"All right, now that I'm sure you won't overturn anything important, check out what's happening in glee club next week," Mercedes broke in at last, pulling out a stack of folded papers from her satchel and setting them on the table in front of Kurt and him.

Looking over at Kurt, wordlessly proffering the first look at this newest development, Blaine watched as he slowly unfolded the papers, smoothing them out before looking down. Blaine's gaze followed after a moment, mostly taking in Kurt's raised eyebrow at first before refocusing on the actual news itself.

GREASE, the first page read, followed by several more with the music sheets and lyrics to a fair variety of songs from said-production. Blaine blinked in surprise. He knew from past experiences with the Warblers that doing nothing even when there wasn't a competition was a recipe for disaster (namely unrest and dissatisfaction, which quickly led to the disintegration of all order and the displeasure of everyone involved). It had happened several times before he, Wes, David, and Thad had been able to wrestle a new strategy into submission, usually a performance at a local center that would have them. It was a way of keeping everyone calm and busy, the practices and preparations preventing mutinies from arising more often. Part of leading the Warblers meant leading them, taking charge of situations and preventing them from being the 'privileged, pampered birds' Kurt had once informed Blaine they had become.

Still, it came as a slight shock to him that Schuester would choose to host another heavily-invested production only three months before the nationals' competition. With people like Rachel Berry, especially, he wondered how the news would go over as far as how much time it would leave for those practices and preparations to be held. The idea of diverting their attention to a separate big project was risky but, at the same time, also rather clever. It would keep them from obsessing too heavily over how they would perform at nationals and whether or not they would place in the top ten. Although Blaine had been somewhat disappointed to hear from Kurt last year that they weren't advancing and had instead come in twelfth place, he knew that the disappointment would be far greater this year if they didn't at least qualify for another round, prove that they were not just capable of making it to the nationals' level but also winning at the nationals' level.

And with that much stress, maybe planning a musical to keep everyone's minds from centering completely on the competition wasn't a bad idea.

"Grease?" Kurt said at last, his voice stunned as he looked over the music sheets again, flipping through them slowly. "We're doing Grease?"

"Actually," Mercedes said, drawing the papers back over to her side of the table and flipping to the bottom one, "we're not doing this as a formal production. It's just a project to get the glee club more attention from the rest of the school."

"Why do we need more attention?" Blaine asked, genuinely curious. His impression of the relationship the main McKinley student body had with the glee club had never been favorable, and the thought of trying to garner anything from the former seemed almost impossible. At Dalton, it had been different -- the main student body practically worshipped the ground the Warblers walked upon, and most regarded it with a sort of envious admiration whenever it was brought up in casual conversation -- but there was still little done in the way of deliberate attention-garnering.

"We're all graduating this year," Mercedes said, the words somehow heavier than before.

This year. Not some distant, indeterminate date in the future. In less than six months they would no longer be a part of the McKinley High population, moving on to achieve bigger and better things.

Hopefully, Blaine reminded himself silently. One never knew what life outside high school would hold, and for him especially it was strange to consider how much he had yet to really consider. He had been supportive and helpful when it came to getting Kurt's college applications filled out, but he had completed his own privately and without much conversation, preferring to examine his choices and submit based on what he wanted and not the preferences of someone else. Even for someone like Kurt, he wanted to make sure he chose the future that was best for himself, because, as Kurt had once said, 'anger lead to resentment which could lead to horrible and nasty break-up.' And no matter what, Blaine didn't want that, even if it meant choosing a college that was different from Kurt's so that he would be happier.

I'll never lose contact with him, Blaine thought fiercely, resisting the urge to snatch Kurt's hand or just yank him into a hug and never let go. It was hard imagining his life where he didn't see Kurt on a daily basis and he didn't have Finn or Carole or Burt to talk to if he wanted them. Lonely was the first word that came to mind, but he pushed it aside, forcing himself to consider his life before Kurt. Where he had been happy with the Warblers, happy as part of a team and not necessarily paired with anyone else, dependent on someone else like he was Kurt.

They were strong for each other, but sometimes Blaine just felt like the absence of Kurt was the absence of texture. Everything would still continue and exist and maybe even thrive, but there wouldn't be the same vivacity that came with sharing it with another person like he could with Kurt. Everything just seemed so much better when Kurt was around, and even in the worst situations Blaine found hope in the knowledge that Kurt was by his side to help him weather the storm.

Still, it was an intimidating thought, and he did his best to clamp down on his sudden desire to simply throw out all the other college applications (impossible, anyway, since he had already submitted them) to the handful of colleges he had applied to that weren't on Kurt's list. It had taken an effort to keep the awareness out of Kurt's hands, namely because he didn't want Kurt to stress about it like he already was, but he wanted to cross that bridge when necessary and not worry about it too much before.

Like you're doing right now? he reminded himself, forcing himself to pay attention to Mercedes as she spoke.

". . . not like we'll be there forever. And let's face it, the glee club is going to need new members soon, otherwise it doesn't stand a chance when it comes to competitions next year."

"We built up from scratch," Kurt reminded, picking apart a croussant. "There were five of us before we recruited Finn, and we still made it to regionals that year."

"Yes, but we didn't win," Mercedes pointed out. "And we almost had our program cut completely because of what Figgins said."

"But he didn't cut it," Kurt reminded, as though Mercedes was deliberately missing the point, "and he won't. Not after this year. Or last year, even."

"All I'm saying is we got really lucky to find so much talent in one year," Mercedes said, holding up her hands slightly in surrender. "The next group might not be so lucky, and I agree with Mr. Schuester: we can't just leave the club hanging like that. Not after we've made it this amazing."

Blaine nodded slightly, watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye as he stirred his coffee pensively, gaze focused on some distant point that neither could see. At last, he flicked his gaze back to Mercedes and nodded once, acknowledging the fact that they couldn't just abandon the glee club to collapse next year once all the leads had departed. Only Tina and Artie would remain as far as Blaine knew, and the prospect of leaving them to an empty choir room made Blaine's heart ache.

Sort of like how the Warblers left you?

Blaine squashed that voice before it could amount to anything. The Warblers had graduated, yes, and essentially left him behind despite his technical qualifications to graduate with them. Had he not been held back a year, he would have graduated with them, and who knew where he would be now. Possibly in Ohio, possibly in New York, but one way or another far, far away from Kurt. For an entire year.

The thought made him shiver a little despite himself. It was a grim prospect, and he was suddenly glad that he had been held back, even if it had seemed like a cruelty at the time. Maybe he would have to endure five years of high school while the majority of students were only sentenced to four: having that extra year to spend with Kurt made it worth it.

No matter what, he thought firmly, shutting out the mutinous little voices that whispered Bletcher and Karofsky and Sebastian.

"Earth to Blaine?"

Blaine blinked, looking at Mercedes and smiling sheepishly. "Sorry," he added aloud. "Just . . . lost in thought."

"I can see that," Mercedes said, shaking her head slightly. "Anyway, this isn't just about trying to recruit new members -- it's just a fun thing for us all to do. You know. As a group. Because between this and nationals, that's all we've got left together."

Kurt hummed in acknowledgment. "Of course, then we have the entire summer," he reminded. "Not to mention I'll be Skyping all of you incessantly for the first few weeks of college."

Mercedes grinned and retorted loftily, "Not if I Skype you first."

They broke out into a playful argument of the merits of who would be better off Skyping the other first, Blaine letting his thoughts wander as he sipped at his own coffee absentmindedly.

For now, he decided, letting his hand drift over to Kurt's underneath the table and interlacing their fingers wordlessly, he wouldn't worry about the future. He would focus on the present, because he didn't know what was to come and he couldn't possibly predict it until he lived it. He would just have to hope for the best and continue as he was, doing his best to soak in as much of his senior year as possible.

Maybe this will be our big chance to really make a stand, Blaine thought, his thumb brushing lightly over the promise ring of Kurt's finger, feeling his grip tighten a little in response even as he chatted with Mercedes. Not just for ourselves, but for our futures.

And maybe it would work out. Maybe he would really find happiness at the end of it all instead of despair, joy and triumph instead of pain and indifference.

As long as I'm with you, he thought, gripping Kurt's hand tightly, then I'll be happy.

* * *

"Hey."

Blaine paused in opening his locker, his fingers slipping slightly on the combination as he turned to look at the speaker. "Hi," he answered, eyeing Karofsky warily. "So you're back?"

Karofsky shrugged a little, glancing over his shoulder as though he was wondering how to respond. "Yeah," he said at last, "I'm back."

There was a pause, Blaine wondering if he should return to his locker and get his stuff in case Karofsky decided to start walking and expected him to follow. Karofsky did nothing of the sort, back stiffening and shoulders straightening a little as he looked at Blaine. At last, he said, "Look, I'm . . ." his voice lowered, closing in the conversation to the two of them so that only someone standing right between them could hear, and added, "I'm sorry for punching you."

"Sebastian would have deserved it," Blaine said with a slight shrug, aiming for nonchalance but inwardly grateful for the apology. "Thank you."

Karofsky jerked his head in a nod before looking around and, after a moment's indecisiveness, stalking off. Blaine waited until he was out of sight before returning to his locker, pulling out his books for first period easily.

"So what's the verdict?" a familiar voice asked from his shoulder.

"What, with him?" A curt nod, Kurt's eyes looking skeptically at the place where Karofsky had disappeared. He seemed on edge at the fact that he hadn't personally heard the exchange, probably remembering days when Karofsky could have just walked up to him and casually threatened him in front of the school without anyone responding. "He apologized," Blaine said, almost feeling the tension ease around Kurt as he nodded slightly, waiting patiently for Blaine to finish gathering his stuff before looking fully at him.

"And did you accept?" he asked. His tone made it clear that insincerity would not have merited approval, that anything less than a genuine apology should have been turned down.

"I did," Blaine said simply, hoping that he put as much earnestness into his voice as possible. Kurt's eyes narrowed briefly, scrutinizing, before he spared one last look in Karofsky's direction and nodded.

"That's good, then," he said, tone brightening. He launched into an informative rant about what Rachel had told him as far as the Grease production went, emphasizing that while most of it was probably accurate in some way Rachel did have a tendency to exaggerate the truth. Blaine nodded politely and walked with him down the hall, unable to help but preen a little inwardly because Kurt was still wearing his promise ring.

Of course, Blaine chastised himself, mentally shaking his head. Did you really expect him not to?

Blaine honestly didn't know -- part of him, at least, was a little skeptical that Kurt would want to wear something that declarative in the known bullying territory that was McKinley -- but there he was, defying Blaine's expectations once more.

"Hey -- Andy!" a voice called, followed by a grinning Marcus. "Hey, Kurt," he added, nodding at Kurt who smiled back. "Happy New Year. Ready for glee club?"

"Is there something special I should be ready for?" Blaine asked innocently.

"Hell yeah. Schuester's got about a dozen swimsuits hanging in a rack in the choir room and the pool reserved for the next two weeks. Sound fishy to you?"

"Wait, what?" Kurt demanded, stepping around Blaine so he was standing right in front of Marcus, his expression suddenly dark. "Pool? Swimsuits? No. Absolutely no."

"Kurt, you don't even know if they're for us," Blaine said soothingly. He was a little surprised at the outburst, if not completely put off. Kurt was probably just annoyed because it would ruin his flawless skin. Which it wouldn't, but Blaine knew any amount of arguing would only be futile in the face of Kurt discussing skin care. "Maybe we're just providing the vocals?"

Marcus wisely said nothing, but Blaine had a sneaking suspicion that his silence wasn't agreement. Kurt's expression stayed dark even after he excused himself to glee club itself, Blaine nudging him towards the choir room after realizing that Kurt wouldn't move. The latter growled a little before stalking off, Blaine having to nearly jog to keep up with him.

Sure enough, sitting in the middle of the choir room was a rack of swimsuits, Kurt's expression seeming to darken another shade as he eyed them.

"They might not be for us," Blaine repeated, steering him towards the back row of seats before he could concentrate on the swimsuits too long.

Unfortunately, they were for the glee club, and within twenty minutes Blaine was fairly sure Kurt went from uptight to rigid with tension. The rest of the guys were eyeing the suits with something akin to interest, the girls casting unreadable looks at each other while Schuester explained that the water polo team had generously agreed to let them practice in the pool.

"Mr. Schue?" Finn asked at last, raising his hand even as he spoke. "Why are we doing this?"

Schuester beamed and Blaine knew that the swimsuits were a means to an end, albeit a very strange end, his gaze scanning the choir room expectantly. He wondered if it was supposed to be one of his overarching moral lessons for the week, to step outside of their comfort zones or something. Still, the suits were modest and the decision almost ludicrously timed with the Grease production and nationals to consider. If Blaine hadn't seen the music sheets for himself and heard it from more than one glee club member, he might have doubted that they were performing Grease, but coupled with the swimming number it seemed borderline suicidal for their nationals' competition.

"Two reasons," Schuester said, drawing Blaine's attention back to the present as he walked back towards the choir room door. "First, we're not just swimming -- we're singing, too. And second," here he held open the door, a blond-haired boy entering after him, a slight grin on his face, "it's a way to reacquaint ourselves with our returning member."

"Dude, we thought you moved to Kentucky," Finn said, even while the rest of the glee club crowded around him to half-smother the newcomer. "The hell?"

"My dad found a job back in Lima," the boy said with a shrug. "And I've got a pretty good gig just outside of town so we were able to move back. Well. We're in an apartment, but we're looking at houses again. Mom's with the kids at her sister's right now." He accepted the hug Tina gave him and looked around them, zeroing in on Marcus and blinking. "Oh. My bad. Hey."

Marcus rumbled a little before throwing out a hand and shaking the new boy's once firmly, retreating with a polite, "Nice to meet you, too."

He's not new, clearly, Blaine corrected himself, inwardly squashing the sudden, violent urge to tell them all how hypocritical they were. You didn't see how they welcomed Jesse St. James or Sunshine, he thought, suppressing mutinous thoughts that whispered, See how much they like him? See how little you fit into their family?

Lingering at the edge of the circle, mostly listening to the others catch up with the new guy demanding answers and laughing in turns, Blaine started when Finn spoke up beside him.

"That's Sam Evans," he explained in a voice that didn't carry over the conversation taking place in the bubble surrounding the new guy. Blaine appreciated that -- the sudden, inexplicable desire to not be noticed as the odd-man-out in the miniature celebration nearly made him leave the choir room entirely. "He moved to Kentucky after his family ran into some financial trouble. He was one of our leads at sectionals last year," he added, Blaine humming slightly as he remembered. "And according to Kurt, he dyes his hair," Finn added. Blaine barked a laugh, unable to help himself, and Sam looked over, the rest of the group seeming to shift aside so that he could see him clearly.

"Oh. Hey," he said, blinking in surprise. "Aren't you that Warbler dude?"

"Former Warbler lead," Blaine corrected, nodding slightly and not moving. He knew it was petty, but he didn't want to rush and greet him, didn't want to just fawn over him like everyone else had. At least Sam couldn't possibly feel ostracized like he had because one person didn't like him -- the rest of the group clearly did, even Santana. (Liked used loosely with her; she still had the tiny red notebook with her best insults in hand.)

"Cool. So it's like, still break for you guys?"

Blaine beat back a flush with a tremendous effort, realizing that Sam didn't know he was actually part of the New Directions. Kurt didn't know when you first transferred. He thought the same thing.

Ignoring that, Blaine was about to respond when Finn spoke up instead.

"Blaine transferred," he said simply. "He's one of us, now."

"Oh." Sam looked Blaine over, probably assessing his value as a team member, before shrugging slightly. "S'cool with me."

The rest of the glee club converged on him, allowing Blaine to retreat to the back burner of attention. Finn stayed by his side, offering the occasional commentary about Sam Evans, providing a welcome distraction to Blaine's thoughts.

Stop it. He was part of their group and he left because circumstances forced him to, and then he's lucky enough to come back. Being irritated with him doesn't solve anything.

Still, Blaine couldn't help but feeling the resentment in his throat, keeping him silent, almost choking him with outrage. Sam didn't even have to smile or anything, just nodded neutrally and occasionally cracked a grin at something someone said. It was enough to have Blaine practically bristling with the urge to tell them all that it wasn't fair that he had to fight constantly for their acceptance and Sam had it intuitively.

You know what you signed up for. This is just a part of that.

He was relieved that Schuester finally took over, urging them to sit down while Sam stood behind him offering the occasional side notes to his monologue. It was exasperating, how easily the rest of the glee club responded to him, even throwing in comments on their own. Blaine did his best to listen objectively, helped by his peripheral focus on Kurt, who hadn't let his guard drop since he saw the swimsuits. It was easier to not focus on his own frustration when he had someone else's to deal with, brushing his fingers lightly along Kurt's forearm, listening to Schuester with half a mind.

So Sam's part of the swim team, Blaine deduced, his free hand tapping incessantly against his knee, restless. We're doing this because he's on the swim team.

Of course, there were other reasons -- how it would help them become closer as a team and what not -- but Blaine didn't bother remember them. The real reason was plain enough, and it added to the growing frustration in his gut, making him want to say something, anything that would stop them from treating Sam like a prodigal.

As soon as the bell rang, Blaine forced himself not to be the first out the door, involuntarily ending up as the last in the room in the process. He stood slowly, walking down the tiers towards the door and almost missing Schuester's words.

"It's hard for you, isn't it?"

He paused, shoulders straightening defensively as he turned slightly to look at the glee club teacher. The rest of the glee club had already filed out, Mercedes dragging Kurt off to discuss something important. Blaine stood near the threshold of the door, his gaze briefly flicking back to the swimsuit rack before he huffed slightly. Schuester wasn't the one he wanted to talk to, not about this.

So all he said was, "Sometimes," and walked out, not bothering look at the man as he did so. Let him wonder about that. Maybe it would do him some good to not have a straightforward answer to bandage everything.


	52. Chapter 52

No Hummel had ever been caught in such a precarious situation as this, Kurt thought.

Instinct told him to go for it. He had an amazing body (and yes, he was willing to admit it, once he had matured from pear-hips sophomore into the lean fashionista he had become), it was an unprecedented opportunity to finally show off that he wasn't a complete prude, and he would have a front row seat to finally see Blaine in a swimsuit. If that last alone wasn't enough to make him want to throw away half the consequences and go for it, he didn't know what else was more compelling evidence. Still, it was perhaps that was giving him the most grief as he attempted to work around the fact that in order to see Blaine in a swimsuit he would have to be in a swimsuit around Blaine and, put simply, he would almost rather be in a Cheerios uniform.

Because at least then he had been surrounded by attractive girls that wore skirts that should have been illegal and might have at least drawn away other people's attention. Then he wouldn't have felt as in the spotlight as he did, not under as much scrutiny as he might have been in spite of his role as one of the few male cheerleaders on the squad (and the only countertenor). Then again, he thought dourly, looking at himself in the mirror critically, he doubted Blaine would have drooled over the girls anyway.

The thought of Blaine watching him while he performed in a Cheerios uniform made Kurt blush scarlet. He thanked the fates that he had just taken a shower and could use the hot water as an excuse for the flush as he hurried through his morning routine, practically throwing on his clothes. Layer upon layer slid neatly into place, and he sighed with relief as he finished looping the last loose end and knotting the final lace on his boots. He felt comfortable in layers, and although Blaine had teased him on several occasion that he was really just a phantom underneath it all (how else was he so lean while wearing seven shirts?), Kurt had never really fallen out of the habit. Layers were highly fashionable, and all the best wore them. Going casual was something that he might do on a day where he didn't have school and wasn't expected to perform in a pool, but doing it on a regular basis would probably made a small portion of his soul die.

He loathed exposure like most people loathed school uniforms. His freedom came from security that he looked fabulous at all times. Even though he fussed over his hair and smoothed collar lapels unnecessarily, he knew that the gestures were merely out of habit and not truly required in most situations. (Unless, of course, he had been dealing with a slushy, in which case grooming was highly necessary.) Without that same sense of confidence that his clothes gave him, he felt uncertain and diminished, somehow, as though all the fabulousness he put into himself was really just a façade.

After all, lean muscle and pleasantly well-tended skin aside, he was no Noah Puckerman. Girls were more likely to coo than swoon, to deem him a cherub than someone actually attractive. Granted, he didn't particularly care for their opinions, but it made him self-conscious to think how Blaine would react. The swimsuits were more conservative than he had hoped for, but there was still the matter that arms and legs that were always studiously covered would be exposed, and that slight dip in the front of the shirt that would expose more of his chest than Kurt's turtlenecks typically allowed. At least the Cheerios uniform had been snug, covering his feet to the ankle and his arms past the shoulder (albeit not much further).

Stop being so Victorian, he chided himself, quickly applying the last of his moisturizers, running through the motions without thought. It's not like you're going to raise a scandal if you show a bare ankle or two.

Even so, the thought was little consolation as he got up from his vanity and tugged his satchel over his shoulder, determined to face the day. He would have to, either way, since he refused to skip the class just because of his skepticisms. He would endure, if nothing else, and find a way to escape the reality if he had to. Maybe he could claim he was sick and leave before they had to get in the pool, or just refuse to change into the uniform and take the inevitable detention, or make up some other elaborate excuse that involved an injury that meant he couldn't perform. The only flaw in his logic stemmed from Blaine: Finn wasn't perceptive enough to catch Kurt in a lie, but Blaine could, and he would, and then Kurt would feel even worse from trying to deceive him.

Just grit your teeth and do it. You've done harder things.

Recalling those activities was difficult, especially when the thought of being exposed like that kept invading his mind. Perhaps it was a more conservative outfit than he had originally predicted, but that didn't mean it wasn't still fundamentally a swimsuit. Which, unfortunately, also entailed the fact that he would have to be in the water in a swimsuit, a thought that was nearly as bad as the swimsuit itself. He hadn't gone swimming in public for years, mostly preferring to just sit on the sidelines carefully protected from the sun and read or write or entertain himself in other ways. Even on the day that Finn, Blaine, and Rachel had dragged him out to the local gym and insisted on swimming he had been able to avoid it by feigning distaste for the water instead.

Now he wished that he had accepted that offer, if only because it might have given him a little more background in swimming while in public. He was competent -- there were few things Kurt Hummel couldn't do -- but he was also lax in how often he had had opportunities to practice. Mostly he just avoided it and waited for other distractions to come and sweep him away. It hadn't been difficult -- after ten minutes of pleading the trio had left him alone and dove in instead, laughing and generally enjoying themselves -- but it meant that he was woefully unprepared for the task before him now.

"Kurt? You ready?"

His dad's voice drew him back to the present as he realized he had been hovering on the top of the stairs aimlessly, unable to bring himself to go down them. Forcibly wrenching his thoughts away from swimsuits and swimming, he half-jogged down the steps and wolfed down a quick breakfast with a speed that might have impressed Finn. His dad certainly stared at him as he devoured a slice of toast in seven seconds flat, careful not to get any crumbs on himself. At least if he didn't have quite the same speed as Finn he had better aim.

"Important day?" his dad asked, eyeing his empty hand skeptically as he dragged it through a towel quickly and shook his head.

"Just lost track of time," Kurt said, only half-lying. Procrastination would probably have been an equally viable explanation, but that would entail explaining to his dad why he was lingering and he wasn't quite ready to do that.

It's just two weeks, Kurt assured himself, trying to take comfort in the fact that, six months from now, none of this would matter. He would be planning out college and how he would get there and what he would need and how many courses he was taking and where his path would take him, not worrying about whether or not he could handle being in a swimsuit. Of course he could handle a swimsuit -- it was no more physically challenging than a unitard or a Cheerios uniform had been -- but whether he was mentally prepared for the task was a different matter.

Thoughts of the unitard made him blush furiously even while he tried to suppress it, Blaine tossing him a quizzical look as he stood patiently by the door. The sight of Blaine only made Kurt's blush deepen as he hastily grabbed his coat off the rack and tugged it over his arms. Blaine looked at him, seeming tempted to ask but not enough to risk a rant that may ensue, before turning back to the door when Kurt was ready and holding it open behind himself for Kurt.

The drive to McKinley was quiet, Kurt fidgeting with the wheel as he determinedly avoided thoughts of unitards and Cheerios uniforms. He managed to make it ten minutes before the sudden mental image of Blaine in either outfit forced its way into his mind. Needless to say, his blush could have burned off a layer of frost from the streets.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, his voice genuinely concerned as he reached over to lay a hand over Kurt's knee. Kurt jerked and Blaine retracted his hand without touching him, looking confused and somewhat hurt. He was silent for the rest of the ride, Kurt working on not speaking -- heaven knew what would come out -- and not thinking about Blaine in tight outfits. Especially not unitards.

Once they were parked Blaine was out of the Navigator almost before Kurt had put it in park, his entire stance resigned while Kurt sighed slightly to himself and dragged himself out of the car. He knew that he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. And if he unintentionally upset Blaine, then he would have to do so, because the alternative was mortifying and terrible and would probably kill at least some part of him.

Stepping into glee club that morning was still probably one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, his every nerve screaming at him to turn around and leave. Mr. Schue was already hurrying the rest of the group to head for the lockers and get suited up, since they needed to take full advantage of their time with the pool. Kurt wrinkled his nose in distaste at the rest of the group's enthusiasm -- even Puck seemed in a good mood, a rarity for him lately -- and focused on not drawing anyone's attention as he meandered about the room. "Kurt!" a voice barked, startling him out of his reverie as Mr. Schue flapped his arms in a shooing gesture. "Suit up!"

Reluctantly, deliberately dragging his feet and elongating the process as much as he could, Kurt sauntered over to the rack and delicately picked off the hanger labeled Kurt. From the corner of his eye he saw Blaine waiting expectantly by the door where the rest of the glee kids had already left through, his presence largely ignored by Mr. Schue, who seemed entirely focused on making sure everyone had his or her swimsuit and was on the way to being ready.

When Kurt could no longer delay the inevitable, he sidled over to where Blaine stood and followed him through the door. Mr. Schue was still bustling around energetically behind them, hurriedly locking up the room while Brad the pianist gloomily trailed after him with the swimsuit rack itself in tow.

Purposefully keeping his gait at a slow walk, Kurt noticed that Blaine matched his pace without any sign of discomfort, even when the distinct noises of arguing ahead of them became clear. Despite their proportionately small conglomeration, the glee club seemed to have invaded every corner, clothes tossed haphazardly as the boys shamelessly stripped and tugged on their gear. Puck complained loudly about the shirt, walking between the aisles shirtless and arguing to Finn that it was ridiculous that they had to wear them at all. Finn was bobbing his head along, adjusting his shirt over his own torso, before he caught sight of Kurt and Blaine. There was a momentary pause where he seemed uncertain how to react to their arrival before he casually lifted a hand in greeting before turning back to listen to Puck's conversation. Puck continued unrelentingly, his hand gesturing with the shirt demonstratively whenever he deemed necessary.

Glad that he had chosen to arrive later rather than earlier, Kurt quickly located one of the few closed stalls and locked himself in. He knew that the glee guys were more comfortable with each other than they let on in the public eye, but guys didn't change in front of girls and similar concepts seemed to have embedded themselves in his own mind. It would have been no less uncomfortable for him to watch them as it would have been for them to watch the girls, although he was fairly certain they might not be as protesting. Rolling his eyes and still blushing at the thoughts -- since when had nudity and tight uniforms been on his mind so much? -- he tugged off his layers methodically, mourning each one that was stripped away. He took his time laying them in a neat pile on one of the benches (knowing that he would have to wash them rigorously later; who knew what sort of bacteria bred there), not bothering to hurry even as he heard the boys moving more quickly, apparently summoned from somewhere above.

The locker room quieted quickly, Kurt almost relaxing as he realized that he was alone and maybe he could just stay here until the class was over and no one would notice. Mr. Schue had yet to perfect the art of counting heads and few of the glee clubbers would raise the alarm over him. If Mercedes mentioned his absence in anything more than a passing comment to Tina or Rachel, then he would be surprised. Really, he didn't have to face this now, he could just stay down here until next period, or, better yet, stop pulling off his precious layers (he was done to his undershirt and jeans, now) and replace the ones he had already tugged off. That way he could just walk out of the room and find an empty classroom to spend the two hours they had before moving on to his next period. He wouldn't have to face the potential disaster ahead of him, the mortification, the terror.

Just as he was about to pick up one of the shirts he had pulled off, however, a quiet voice asked, "Kurt? You still here?" and he knew that he couldn't just leave. Not when Blaine would wonder, would ask, would worry about him the whole time because he wouldn't know that Kurt was unhurt. He would just think that Kurt had not shown up when he should have and draw the wrong conclusions from there, and Kurt didn't want to put him through that over something so silly.

Swallowing inaudibly, he pulled off his undershirt, the cold air striking his chest malevolently. He knew it was childish and silly, but he couldn't help crossing his arms over his torso protectively, his long, deep breaths probably raspy and loud enough for Blaine to hear. He hoped he didn't sound too afraid, but he couldn't help himself. He already hated the exposure, hated how open and vulnerable he felt without the layers of clothes separating him from McKinley. The sudden remembrance of a finger jabbing harshly into his chest and trailing down several inches threatened to blank out his thoughts as the terror from that day reinstated itself in his mind. He shivered a little and realized that he couldn't stop quivering, on edge and exposed and vulnerable to attack.

But then: "Kurt? Are you okay?"

And suddenly he could breathe again, because Blaine was still out there and he wouldn't let Karofsky come anywhere near Kurt, not if he had any malicious intents. Kurt pulled on the swimsuit top quickly, the simple fabric feeling rough and a flimsy barrier to the outside, before quickly following with his lower half. At least the combination was less awful than he had first imagined, but he still felt uncomfortably aware that he had only one thin layer of protection separating him from the wrath of McKinley. His clothes, precious and unprotected, rested on the bench, looking feeble and powerless without his confidence to infuse them.

Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered the clothes in his arms and slowly turned the handle, forcing his eyes to remain open even when he felt tempted to close them as he stepped into the locker room fully. Blaine was leaning against the wall nearby, having straightened the moment he heard the handle move, and his attention seemed riveted on Kurt, half-concerned, half-stunned.

Without looking at him or even acknowledging his presence, Kurt gingerly stowed his clothes away in a locker, tugging on the lock once to make sure it was properly secured before turning to face Blaine at last.

And for the first time since entering the locker room he remembered that Blaine was in a swimsuit, too, and it relaxed him more than he could say to have that simple comparison. If Blaine could still look calm and unperturbed (albeit worried for Kurt and increasingly anxious about his silence), then surely Kurt could be all right with it, too.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, stepping forward and offering his hand. Kurt hesitated before intertwining them, his left ring finger feeling bare where the ring was absent. (He had left it at home to prevent possible theft; at McKinley, one never knew the lengths the jocks would go to harass them, and at least clothes could be replaced, if necessary. A ring like that couldn't -- not really.)

"Yes," Kurt said, surprised at the strength of his own voice.

Blaine stared at him a moment longer, silently scrutinizing his face for any signs that he was lying, before conceding with a slight nod and squeezing his hand. "Let's go join them, then, shall we?"

All of Kurt's former worry returned in a flood but he nodded regardless, keeping a hold on Blaine's hand even while the latter hesitated in pulling it away. In the end, Blaine just gripped Kurt's hand and led the way, the sounds of the glee club above them muffled by the heavy doors. Kurt drew in a deep breath as Blaine reached for the handle, letting go of his hand with some reluctance, and nearly faltered at the roar of noise that greeted them, voicing overlapping and the sounds of splashing and Mr. Schue blowing on a whistle greeting them.

Blaine stepped out confidently onto the deck, seemingly unselfconscious about his own appearance. He was shorter than the rest of the guys, yes, but they were already in the water, and he had better arms than half of them. (Kurt narrowly beat back the urge to blush at that, too; his face would probably burn if he kept flushing.) At least he could stand there as the image of masculinity while Kurt was all lean and soft and . . . well, not.

"It's okay," Blaine said, seeming to read his thoughts, ignoring the shrill cry of Mr. Schue's whistle. (Most of the rest of the club already was, anyway.) "No one's even looking, Kurt."

Kurt looked around him, glad that the shadows mostly concealed him from sight, and saw that Blaine's assessment was valid. The girls had huddled together in a group and were watching the boys in apparent disgust as they attempted to drown one another, Mr. Schue yelling at them to settle down so they could get started. Kurt let his gaze drift around the natatorium, his nose wrinkling at the pervasive scent of chlorine, before he shuddered a little and took a step forward onto the deck. Two steps later and he was fully in the open, the bright light of the main area almost a spotlight by comparison.

Tempted to rush back before anything could change -- none of the glee clubbers had noticed his entrance yet, after all -- Kurt gritted his teeth instead and folded his arms, unable to help himself. It gave him some sense of protection, at least, and that was better than the full exposure that he felt. A warm hand rested on his arm and he looked over at Blaine, who smiled back. "Don't worry," he murmured soothingly, his thumb briefly stroking the skin there before his hand retreated. Kurt could still feel the delicate hairs surrounding the area standing on edge from the contact, tremendously soothed by the gesture.

He followed Blaine warily towards the steps leading into the pool, hesitating while Blaine slid in casually. Blaine was already fully submerged before Kurt even stood near the edge, looking up at Kurt with something akin to amusement. There was sympathy there, too, and Kurt knew that he wasn't judging his behavior as cowardly or silly. He waited, both hands extended patiently, and Kurt lingered only a moment longer before tentatively putting his foot in the water.

It was slightly warmer than he had expected it to be but still only lukewarm, a full body shudder wracking him despite himself. Blaine didn't comment on that, just stood waiting for him, and Kurt slowly edged into the pool, feeling some of his trepidation vanish once the water had filled the place of layers around him. And, really, with the rest of the glee club so intent on each other at the other end of the pool, it wasn't that bad. The water was more comfortable than he had expected and slipping his fingers into Blaine's gave him back a measure of security that he hadn't realized he could have both while wearing seven layers and in a pool.

Giving him a grin that was nothing other than happy, Blaine squeezed his hands once tightly before edging backward, Kurt involuntarily digging in his heels. That was deeper water, and while he was fine with this where his feet touched the ground and it was just him and Blaine, out there meant other people and less safety, less sense of knowing. He wasn't afraid of the water, but the idea of stepping away from their tranquil isolation and back into the fully chaotic environment on the other end of the pool had Kurt's feet digging into the bottom.

Blaine didn't move, their hands still connected underwater, Blaine's thumbs rubbing the backs of Kurt's hands until at last he stepped forward. One small step, but it still made Blaine grin wider, and then another, and another, until at last they were close enough to the group to be considered a part of it. Kurt's feet no longer touched the bottom, his arms pinwheeling lazily at his sides in a tread that his body remembered even if it was out of practice. Blaine had no trouble keeping up with it, smiling proudly at him in a way that clearly said, I'm glad you did this.

Kurt shrugged a little in a self-deprecating way, a piercing cry from the whistle making him wince as he looked to where Mr. Schue, nearly purple from the effort, clasped his hands and looked at them all. "Right!" he expounded, his voice slightly breathless. "Now that everyone's in the pool . . . Puck!" he warned, while the latter attempted to pounce on Mike from behind. "Let's get started. Sam, you had something you wanted to say?"

Sam was sitting on the edge of the pool near Mr. Schue, Kurt realized, having pulled himself up out of the water as soon as Mr. Schue mentioned his name. "You should just know that synchronized swimming isn't like tap-dancing or any of those other dances," he said, his feet swinging back and forth lazily. "It's a lot more complicated because you have to tread water and you can't move as fast in certain positions." He looked pointedly at Mike, who rolled his eyes and dove under the water, reappearing a moment later behind a shrieking Tina.

"Says who?" he challenged, wrapping her in his arms in an apologetic hug while she swatted at his head.

"All right, so maybe some things are faster," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "But for the most part, you're going to have to figure out how to compensate with your movements so that they're slightly exaggerated. That's the only way it works." He grinned suddenly at Finn, adding, "It might even make you a better dancer."

Finn beamed at the mention, Kurt rolling his eyes -- Finn would never be a good dancer; he could be decent and competent at best -- before Sam clapped his hands together and slid back into the water. "All right," Mr. Schue said hurriedly before conversations and drowning attempts could resume. "We're just going to go over some basic moves today. I see all of you can tread water," he added, pointedly ignoring the way Brittany was holding onto the wall looking unperturbed. "Let's work on just simple circles, okay? I want you guys to split into two groups, arms length apart."

It took some maneuvering and bumping of shoulders, but eventually Kurt found that he was actually good at keeping up with the basic instructions Mr. Schue gave them. It wasn't a difficult lesson, mostly involving hovering between Rachel and Tina or Mike and Rory in their impromptu sessions. Artie, he saw, was sitting on the deck beside Brad, who watched the group with his typical forlorn expression.

At last, after what felt like several hours' worth of swimming in circles, Mr. Schue blew the whistle and told them that they could change in the lockers.

"See," Blaine told him, rubbing at his hair brusquely with a towel, dripping water onto the locker room floor and still in his soaking swimsuit, "that wasn't so bad." He grinned at Kurt toothily before focusing on a particularly stubborn patch of hair that seemed to resist his every effort to dry it, Kurt just staring at him in a vague sort of amusement as he did so. He had already changed, having torn through the bathroom as soon as the whistle touched Mr. Schue's lips and practically thrown on his clothes. Just having his layers around him was a comforting feeling, and with the rest of the guys changing in other parts of the room, it was almost like it was just him and Blaine. Blaine, who was apparently unselfconscious about the fact that he was still in a swimsuit while Kurt was very much layered. "I mean, yeah, Mike's kind of a jerk, but everyone else is pretty nice," he said, loudly enough for the other boy to hear. Mike let out an indignant squawk, eliciting a laugh from Blaine and several of the other boys, before Blaine shook his head and resumed towel-drying his hair. "God, this is why my hair is terrible," he said.

"Need some help?" Kurt asked dryly, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could help himself.

"Please?" Blaine replied, not seeming to realize the implication, either. He just looked at Kurt as he scrubbed uselessly at the back of his head, unashamed.

Slowly, Kurt stood, taking two steps forward and staring at Blaine. At this distance he could all but feel just how much Blaine's swimsuit clung to him and the puddle of water congealed underneath him. Blaine looked at him, seeming surprised by the sudden closeness, but he didn't hesitate to pass the towel over to Kurt. Gingerly, half-wondering if he was allowed even though Blaine had offered no sign of resistance, Kurt reached over and brushed it carefully through the hair at the nape of his neck, most of it sticking up as soon as he passed over it. It was more effective than just scrubbing endlessly at the spot, Blaine's shoulders drooping slightly as Kurt continued, apparently entirely unaware of the fact that this was so . . . well, intimate. It was simply the natural progression of things that Kurt smoothed the towel down just a little further than his neck to the edge of his collar where the water had congealed, sweeping across to reach both his shoulder blades.

When Blaine didn't protest or move to take the towel back from him, he brushed it gently down his arms, watching in fascination as the hairs stood up in the same staticy way they had on his own. Blaine shivered once when he was done with both arms, looking at Kurt with suddenly clear eyes before lightly bopping him on the nose with the edge of the towel in mocking rebuke. A smile crossed Kurt's lips, even though the scent of Blaine seemed overpowering and he really couldn't handle this right now, when Blaine was still literally dripping wet in a swimsuit.

"I . . . lunch?" he said, cursing himself inwardly for his incoherency.

Blaine just looked at him with questioning eyes for several long, silent moments before seeming to come back to himself and nodding, a small grin of his own on his face as he worked on towel-drying the rest of his torso. "Sure," he said simply.

If Kurt walked a little more quickly out of the locker room then he might have on any other occasion, then he could only blame it on the fact that he had not expected things to turn in that direction. He just . . . it was just water. It wasn't like it made Blaine suddenly more or less attractive.

Except it kind of does, since it makes his shirt cling to him like that and his pants skin-tight and--

Forcibly shutting that unhelpful voice aside, Kurt hurried to his French class with more gusto than usual, willing himself not to think about any of it.

* * *

"Hey."

Blaine looked over at Karofsky, surprised to see the jock standing by his locker in a green-striped t-shirt. Despite his apparent demotion among the ranks of the jocks, he normally stayed in his letterman jacket. To see him in a different outfit was bizarre, making Blaine wonder if something else had happened, something even more serious than before. Bracing himself for a potential explosion, Blaine cautiously edged nearer -- if nothing else, he needed to reach his locker. "Hi," he said at last, his voice neither welcoming nor unwelcoming, a neutral tone that left Karofsky to respond either way.

The former jock didn't back down, looking at him intently. "I wanted . . ." He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, his gaze darting around the hall briefly. Most of the students were milling about aimlessly, a few passing near enough that they might be able to eavesdrop but vanishing seconds later, clearly not intending to hear anything outside their own spheres of influence. Apparently satisfied with this conclusion, Karofsky looked hard at Blaine and finished carefully, "Thank you for talking to Figgins. He, uh, told me what you did. You and Hummel," he added.

Blaine blinked in surprise, an eyebrow raising without his permission. "I didn't talk to Figgins," hovered on his tongue before he restrained himself. Perhaps it wouldn't be best to undermine Kurt's decision in this instance, although he could admit confusion about it. How he was supposed to react to finding out that Karofsky had been somehow assisted by Kurt was beyond him.

"You're welcome," he said at last, hedging the words as he opened his locker. "Though I'm sure he already had his mind made up, anyway."

Karofsky jerked his head in a nod, seeming to acknowledge that -- Figgins was usually fairly decisive in one way or another on certain issues -- before leaning forward suddenly, crowding Blaine against the locker and making him stiffen with surprise, rigid with the proximity. No matter what sort of person he had become, Karofsky was still fundamentally the same jock that had bullied Kurt so severely that he felt he had to leave the school just to stay safe. Whether or not he had ever meant him any genuine harm didn't matter; he had still given off the full impression that he could and would, and that was all that had mattered.

Karofsky didn't try to punch him now, though, or threaten him. He just kept speaking, his voice low and seemingly determined to keep this conversation between them and them alone. "I know Santana's been riding you hard to protect me, but I'm fine," he all but rasped, his whispering harsh and quick. "Don't listen to her. She sort of owes me a favor from the summer -- I, uh, got her out of a tricky situation with one of her relatives -- and now she thinks she's . . . obligated to help me or something. Personally--" and here Blaine practically had to read his lips he was speaking so quietly, "I think she just wants to see if my being out of the closet will make it easier for her to be out of the closet, too."

In an instant, Karofsky stepped away, leaving Blaine still pressed against the lockers as he looked at the former jock, trying to read past the nervous glances he cast down the halls and see if what he had said was true.

Santana wanted to come out of the closet? Blaine had known from Kurt's descriptions that she was gay before he had even met her, but the thought of her actually coming out at McKinley seemed almost unfathomable. She was the cheerleader that had sex with every male she could find, not the lesbian secretly holding out in the closet. She would endure in silence until the day came when she either decided to come out or locked herself permanently away. To hear from Karofsky that she thought his situation might be a gateway for her own to be resolved made Blaine's head spin. The possibility was difficult to wrap his thoughts around, let alone seriously consider.

She's not just doing this for him, he thought finally, while Karofsky jerked his head in a decisive nod before stalking away, she's doing it for herself.

Karofsky's words haunted him until his lunch date with Kurt, and while he did his best to remain engrossed in the conversation he couldn't help being distracted by the revelation. Fortunately, it seemed, Kurt was evidently distracted as well, for he didn't even comment on Blaine's lax attention (something he never would have normally missed).

Don't we make a fine couple, Blaine thought wryly, nodding along to what Kurt was saying without hearing any of it.

* * *

That night, Kurt lay awake, unable to sleep. This was largely the fault of Blaine Anderson, who was currently curled up beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder comfortably while his head rested against Kurt's side, his breath warm and deep and even. Kurt shivered slightly, unable to stop it, feeling Blaine shift a little in response. Ever since the locker room incident, he couldn't get thoughts of Blaine out of his head -- namely, Blaine in a soaking wet swimsuit with loose curly hair and a completely relaxed demeanor. Even now, it seemed, he was more open and casual than usual, despite their positions being no more adventurous than they had always been.

Why not? Kurt thought, suddenly daring, before squashing the rebellious impulse with a blush. His father was home, for Gaga's sake, and his stepmom, and Finn. Now was definitely not the time to be having inappropriate thoughts, especially when it came to Blaine. His family had already been so accepting about their situation that he knew it would be beyond overstepping to put all of that on the line for this.

For what, exactly? Kurt's cynical side demanded.

He ignored the voice, instead wrapping his arms a little more firmly around Blaine and focusing on sleep.

It didn't come, thoughts of their future and New York invading his mind instead. He knew that, within the next couple of weeks, they would be receiving letters from colleges regarding their admittance. He knew that, as long as he got into at least one school in New York, he would be content. If not, then he would be facing a life bound within Ohio, only to possibly achieve an escape once he had graduated from college (a thought that made his stomach knot and twist). He didn't want to have to wait another four years to really begin living his life; he wanted to get out of Ohio and really experience the world beyond a small, mildly homophobic town.

I don't want you left behind, either, he mentally amended, his chin resting on top of Blaine's head briefly. I can't leave you behind.

Not after everything they had been through. Not after the weeks of trial and error they had spent as friends and eventually boyfriends, the months of getting to know each other and truly develop their relationship into something that was deep and intimate but also casual and easy.

The locker room had reminded Kurt that while they shared many sides of themselves with each othere, there was still a very distinct line drawn between how much of themselves they emotionally invested and how much physically. Gestures were always soft and sweet and full of love, just simple affectionate movements meant to reassure each other that they were each other's. Kurt knew that they were tame to a degree that would have driven most high school boys mad with exasperation, but he liked the pace of their relationship.

You didn't mind exposing more skin today, his cynical side added scathingly.

Kurt blushed deeper and shut it out. Later, he thought. Later he would work that out, figure out what this new interest in physicality meant. Because while nothing had technically changed, and Blaine was still the same person he had been twenty-four hours ago, Kurt's perception of him had altered drastically. Even just the warm weight of him sleeping was not enough to lull Kurt away from his troubles and into sleep. He couldn't help thinking about what it would be like to wake him up and just run his fingers over his bare arm like that again without the barrier of a towel between them. Just fingertips, just feeling the smooth contours of it without overstepping barriers.

Maybe you have to overstep a little to figure things out, a quiet voice pointed out. Kurt didn't recognize it but he also didn't silence it immediately either. Maybe it is time to be a little adventurous.

Still, Blaine was asleep now and he didn't have the heart to wake him, so Kurt just traced light patterns against his arm as he had done so a hundred times before, feeling the bicep underneath his fingertips with more acuity than usual. He seemed intensely aware of everything that was Blaine, and although the mere thought of knowing more made he want to backpedal hastily before he ruined everything, he couldn't shake the thought completely.

Adventurous, he mused, the word chasing him into sleep, his head still resting on top of Blaine's. Maybe that's what we need to be.


	53. Chapter 53

"Screw this, I'm getting a whole cheesecake."

It had seemed like such a magnificent idea at the time.

When Kurt had finally realized what he had needed to feel better, his nerves had finally vanished. The first few bites had been exquisite, the pieces therein helpfully bogging his thoughts down until the only thing he really cared about was exactly how good cheesecake was. And exactly how much he enjoyed it when he finally let himself indulge for once. After all, Finn was allowed to eat like a horse and still maintain an overall healthy figure. Kurt should be allowed to do the same, at least on certain, special occasions.

Fortunately, Kurt had not gone to the Breadstix alone, and Blaine had stopped him from finishing more than half of the cheesecake when he realized Kurt was serious in his intent to eat it all. Kurt had not given up his cheesecake without a fight, insisting that Blaine had no right to take away his food from him if he wanted to overindulge himself and storming out unhappily when Blaine persisted. He didn't even care that Rachel and Finn were gaping dumbly after him as he left, Blaine following closely on his heels with an apologetic look back in their direction and a hastily tossed dollar bill. Kurt didn't even bother see what it was, just pushing past the glass doors and out into the frigid air.

Another argument had ensued shortly thereafter when Blaine insisted on driving, Kurt snapping that it was his car and he was the one who had driven them there. In the end, Kurt had given in and growled threateningly that he hoped Blaine enjoyed sleeping on the basement floor tonight. Blaine had cast him a single wounded look before rolling his eyes to dispel the tension and hopping into the driver's seat.

And maybe Kurt had forgiven him a little when the fact that he had eaten half of a cheesecake finally seemed to register with his brain. The pain had started out as a mildly unpleasant ache in his stomach, barely noticeable, before morphing into a full-fledged stomachache by the time they were four or five minutes into the drive.

Blaine was humming peacefully along with the radio, Kurt on the verge of screaming at him that now was not the time to be so cheerful, before abruptly losing his fire and just wanting to curl up and die. His dad had always thought it was amusing how he 'ate out his feelings,' turning to various comfort foods when situations became too difficult to handle any longer. This particular comfort-fest had been brought on by a letter that morning from NYADA stating that he was a finalist for admissions. At first, he had been so ecstatic that he had a chance at getting in that he hadn't even thought twice before shrieking loud enough to wake up the entire Hudson-Hummel household. Blaine had shot down the stairs and nearly tripped over Kurt as he catapulted into the kitchen. Shaking, laughing, and almost sobbing with the news, Kurt had managed to explain to a bleary and disoriented Blaine that he had made it, he was a finalist, and that NYADA was actually considering him for admission. That he had survived the first round of cuts, the biggest elimination process that would take place, and that he was now in the exclusive line of hopefuls that might gain admittance.

By the time his dad, Carole, and Finn had been informed of the news, Blaine had finally seemed to comprehend Kurt's words. He had swept Kurt up into a hug that seemed to squeeze all the breath and laughter from him at once, laughing and congratulating Kurt in equal parts. Kurt's dad, Carole, and Finn had all had their say as well, Finn thumping Kurt on the back while Carole and his dad both gave him slightly less rib-creaking hugs. Of course, as soon as they were done Blaine insisted on giving him another hug, just to vent his feelings, and then insisted on looking over the letter again with Kurt, reading it and beaming at Kurt in equal parts.

Once the initial hype had calmed down and talk of actual future plans had taken over, however, a small dark cloud seemed to form over Kurt's thoughts as he realized just how competitive this level of admittance was. He had made it past the first round of cuts, yes, and that certainly put him in a better position than most other would-be attendees, but it also meant that the people he was competing against now for the precious slots were going to be extremely talented. And with such a limited number of students admitted every year, purposefully kept small so that the name would remain as high-end as it was, Kurt couldn't help thinking that he was unlikely to advance any farther than he had.

It was silly, and it was childish, but the thoughts had crowded into his mind every time he had thought of his NYADA finalist status. Rachel had called him around mid-afternoon to wax poetically about her lack of response insofar, the worry in her voice plain when he explained that his letter had come that morning. He had spent nearly twenty minutes assuring her that her letter would probably be there within a day or two, that sometimes letters weren't always sent out at the same times. Rachel had remained uneasy and skeptical throughout the conversation, though, and Kurt, feeling that flicker of kinship that he had with her over their initial pity-party for NYADA, had invited her and Finn to dinner on a double-date dinner to talk it over in more depth.

Finn and Blaine had been mostly there to eat the food that Rachel and Kurt weren't really interested in and add in helpful commentary when the conversation ran dry. They even struck up a spirited conversation about sports that was so involved it distracted both Kurt and Rachel from their respective college woes for nearly twenty minutes. Then their entrees had arrived and Kurt had once more reverted to talk with Rachel about when her letter would arrive and the implication of its lateness.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he had soothed while picking absentmindedly at his salad. "They might have sent the letters out alphabetically and yours is later because it's closer to the beginning."

It had seemed like a weak excuse even to him, but it had placated her a little and it had given him something else to mull over that wasn't his own despair or concerns.

Until, of course, he had just looked over at Blaine -- who had been silent for a while at that time, listening to Kurt intently as he spoke to Rachel and Finn about their future -- and just lost control of himself when he realized that whatever happened, Blaine wasn't looking for admittance to NYADA. And if Kurt got into NYADA, then he wouldn't be going to the same college as him, which could lead to the development of a long-distance relationship depending on where Blaine did go to college, which could mean the end of their relationship since how many long-distance first-time relationships actually lasted during or after college?

Hence the cheesecake. And now his dreadful, horrible, unfair stomachache.

"Is that . . . God, you're listening to The Lion King while I'm dying," Kurt moaned.

"Lion King always puts me in a good mood," Blaine protested. "And besides, it's a classic." He grinned, humming along to the chorus of 'I Just Can't Wait to be King' with apparently no concern for the fact that Kurt was going to explode. Or maybe just curl up and die. Neither sounded particularly appealing, but at least it would resolve his dilemma of whether his and Blaine's relationship would last. Which it still could, Kurt supposed, if Blaine took the Shakespearean route and they both ended up in some afterlife together.

This is why I don't eat large amounts of cheesecake, Kurt thought, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He groaned as the track switched, playing another Disney song that he soon recognized as Be Our Guest. "I don't want to listen to silverware sing about food," he snapped. "Turn it off."

"My, isn't someone in a pleasant mood," Blaine mused, flicking the settings until he reached a different track. "Better?" he added.

It was 'Some People' from Gypsy. Kurt almost laughed as he realized that Blaine didn't even know that he had sung it before Mr. Schue and Jesse St. Sucks when vying for the nationals' solo last year. (That, sadly, had never actually fomented; perhaps it truly had been too good to be true, considering their tendency to revert back to Rachel and Finn duets in crises.)

Just one of many things Blaine didn't know, really. Blaine didn't know he had been a Cheerio, or that he had taught the football team how to dance to Single Ladies in order to win their championship game two years ago. Blaine also didn't know that he had deliberately slushied himself to spare Finn's feelings when matters became torn between glee club and football. He didn't know that Kurt had gotten drunk on a house-cleaning concoction and vomited on Ms. Pillsbury's shoes. He didn't know why Finn and Kurt never mentioned the fight in the basement.

Kurt winced slightly as he recalled that, a twinge in his stomach not helping matters as he huffed loudly in exasperation. "How much longer?" he asked, not caring if he sounded like he was whining.

"Ten more minutes, maybe. It's a little icy out, so I'm taking it slow," Blaine answered, unperturbed by Kurt's misery. Or at least doing a good job of hiding his concern.

Well, Kurt thought unhappily, he had rather prompted the unconcern by being so hostile to him, so it was only fair, really, that Blaine was trying to give him space. Still, Kurt couldn't help but wish that Blaine would just forget that he had said any of that or behaved so childishly back in the restaurant and just take away the agonizing fullness plaguing his stomach. "I give up," he said at last, a frustrated sigh escaping him as he sat up a little straighter and reached for the top button on his ridiculously tight pants. Why he insisted on wearing designer wear tonight, he did not know, especially when he should have foreseen that overeating was almost inevitable. Still, asking him to sit for ten minutes -- longer if one counted the time that had already passed -- in misery like this was impossible. He sighed in immediate relief as some of the pressure was relieved, almost feeling Blaine stiffen beside him.

"Um, Kurt?"

"Say a word and I'm never letting you near my room again."

Blaine wisely said nothing, focusing on driving instead. It wasn't until they came to a gentle halt that Kurt realized they were finally home. He unbuckled his seat belt and reached for his door, grateful to be home so that he could just curl up on his bed and properly die, when Blaine made a startled noise beside him.

"Um, Kurt, jeans?"

Kurt blinked at him, confused, before looking down at Blaine's jeans. "What about them?" he asked. They were casual and comfortable, fitting snugly to his legs without actually constricting circulation. Kurt admired the way they hugged his thighs for a few moments, suddenly peeved that they were allowed to do that and he couldn't. He was Blaine's boyfriend, after all, and yet a pair of jeans that Blaine had just pulled out of a dresser that morning still had more favor with him. Unbelievable.

You need to lay off the cheesecake.

"They're, uh. . . ." Blaine made an airy motion that Kurt didn't understand at all. "Kurt, your jeans are unzipped," he blurted, then blushed and turned to open his door, scrambling outside before Kurt could say anything.

He blinked twice after him in dull incomprehension before looking down at his own jeans and groaning. Oh God. They were unzipped, no longer simply the top button but the entire zip and while it felt much better on his stomach it was still horribly inappropriate and now Blaine probably thought he was trying to flaunt himself somehow. Extremely and mortifyingly unsubtly.

Hastily zipping his jeans back together and wincing a little as his stomach ached in protest, he fumbled with the lock on his own door and hurried outside. Blaine was waiting by the front door for him, looking anywhere but at Kurt, and Kurt's ears burned as he walked over to him, reaching for the handle without speaking.

The tension broke as Kurt sauntered away to his room to recover and Blaine started talking with Carole amiably about how the dinner date had gone. Kurt's dad was out late working on inventory with Jake at the car shop, Blaine's head bobbing in a nod as Carole reiterated the point. Not bothering listen to them, Kurt staggered up the stairs and nearly just dropped onto the hallway floor. It was carpeted, after all, and surely it couldn't be that much less comfortable than his bed. Besides, there was plenty of room to sprawl here and just let his overindulged paunch bulge until it settling back to normal.

It was only the threat of Finn climbing up the stairs later and stepping on him that kept Kurt moving forward until he reached his own room, flopping gratefully onto his bed and halfheartedly kicking off his shoes. He didn't bother crawling underneath the covers, just curling up into a ball and hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. It took a countless period of time before he mustered up the willpower to stand again, shimmying out of his tight jeans slowly with his gaze locked on the closed door, ready to rebuff a would-be intruder with a sharp word. He managed to change into a pair of loose pajamas without incident, however, just crawling onto his bed in the same position as before when he was done.

His mind flickered in and out of awareness after that. One moment he was lying on top of the covers with the door closed and bright hallway light seeping in under it, the next his dad was tugging the blankets out from under him and coaxing him into lying underneath them instead, pulling them over him once he was done. Kurt's hand grasped at his absently, giving it a squeeze in gratitude, and he could almost feel his dad's smile before he left with a whispered, "Good night, kiddo."

Another interminably long period passed, the house feeling dark and sleepy and still when he blinked at the wall. His stomach still ached horrendously, but mostly he just felt cold, his fingers reaching out of their own will to the other side of the bed, seeking. There was nothing there, though, only cold sheets and more pillows, his searching fingertips finding nothing more substantial than the bed itself. Frowning in disappointment, Kurt let his awareness fade out again, wondering why the bed felt so much emptier.

But then there were soft snores nearby and Kurt had his fingers wrapped in the fabric of a shirt, his head buried against it while his legs stayed curled up close to his chest. The ache in his stomach had finally settled down a tolerable fullness, somewhat uncomfortable but manageable. Humming contentedly, lacing his fingers more tightly in the fabric of Blaine's shirt and wondering how and why he was here now and not before, Kurt fell asleep again before he could ask him.

* * *

"I'm never eating cheesecake again," Kurt vowed fervently the next morning, Blaine nuzzling sleepily at his neck.

"Whatever you say," he said, his nose resting against Kurt's cheek.

"Kurt, have you seen Blaine?" Carole's voice called, Blaine wincing a little and pulling back from Kurt. Reaching out, half-wanting to hold him back regardless of the repercussions, Kurt knew it was futile as Blaine picked up one of the pillows and a thin blanket draped on the floor and folded himself onto the rug, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. If Kurt didn't know any better then he would have actually thought he had just come into the room and fallen asleep like that. As it was, he was impressed, hastily arranging the covers so that the open space Blaine had left was not so evident.

The door was partially open, to Kurt's relief -- explaining a closed door would have doomed any attempts at subtlety. As it was, Carole's head appeared in the doorway first as she knocked lightly on the doorjamb. "Kurt? You awake, honey?"

"Yeah," Kurt said, yawning silently before stretching, doing his best to look alert as he glanced over at her. "What is it?"

"I was just coming to see if you were okay," Carole admitted. "Blaine said you might have overdone it a little on the cheesecake last night."

Traitor, Kurt thought, glaring in the direction of his boyfriend. "Hardly," he told Carole, knowing that he was not exactly the most convincing figure fresh out of bed but refusing to concede that easily.

"Well, if you're up for it, we're going out for brunch in an hour," was all she said. "Blaine's invited, too," she added.

She disappeared from the doorway a moment later, Kurt waiting until he heard footsteps descending the stairs before shuffling over to look over the side of the bed where Blaine was sleeping. "You," he said, very firmly, "are impossible."

"Shh. Sleeping."

Kurt rolled his eyes and tossed a pillow at his head, ignoring Blaine's grunted protest as he climbed out of bed and started working on his morning routine. After twenty minutes or so Blaine finally roused himself and got off the floor, casting Kurt one dubious look where he was working on his moisturizer. Kurt ignored him, knowing the comments about overeating and the disadvantages thereof, but Blaine said nothing, just left him be as he stepped out of the room. Kurt thought he heard chatter below moments later, his imagination supplying the lines from Carole and Blaine easily. Determining not to focus on what Blaine must be thinking of him now -- his cheeks flushed as he thought of how absolutely debauched cheesecake-induced overeating made him -- Kurt scrubbed his skin with a little more vigor than usually, probably doing more damage than good.

The chlorine will just ruin it anyway, he thought morosely, capping the last bottle with a sigh. Why spend the extra time?

Then, with a shudder at the thought of becoming so relaxed with his routines that he would stop altogether, he took particular care choosing his outfit to be even more fabulous than usual, brushing his thumb over the silver on his finger with a slight smile once he was finished.

Perfect, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror and smiling.

* * *

"So, what's your angle on this?" Blaine asked, trying to sound casual as he sat on the edge of the pool next to Sam. "Why swimming?"

Sam shrugged, looking nonplussed at Blaine's tone. "I talked to Coach Beiste when I transferred back to see if there were any positions on the football team open. There weren't." A rueful smile crossed his face. "Not that I had expected there to be any positions, really. It was already mid-season, and that's a hard enough time to manage with just the regular team playing. Let alone new guys trying to join. So I asked her if there were any other sports that could use an extra man, and she pointed me here." He gestured around the natatorium, shrugging again. "Synchronized swimming it was," he finished, clasping his hands together.

"Hmm," Blaine said, ignoring the way his own hands had clenched into near fists at the word 'football.' Of course. Everyone on the glee club had been either on the football team or a cheerleader. Everyone.

Rory hasn't.

Blaine barked a slight laugh despite himself as he looked over at the Irish boy, currently doing his best to look nonchalant in one of the corners while Schuester attempted to break up a playful fight between Puck, Mike, and Finn.

Sam huffed at Blaine's outburst, misinterpreting his laugh.

"It's not just for girls," he said defensively. "I mean, yeah, the girl-to-guy ratio's like seven to one, but it's all about body strength. And coordination. And even if it was a girl sport," he added, his voice suddenly heated as though he had had this argument several times before, "then screw that. Hummel was a cheerleader. That's way more feminine than synchronized swimming, and you don't see anyone giving him crap about it. Why can't I be a swimmer?"

Blaine blinked and did a double-take. "Wait, what?"

Sam eyed him skeptically. "I said, why can't I be a swim--"

"Kurt was a cheerleader," Blaine interrupted, staring openly at Sam now. "Kurt?"

"Um, yeah, dude. Where've you been?"

"Kurt? Kurt Hummel? The one that attends McKinley? My boyfriend? He was a cheerleader?"

Sam looked at him with something akin to concern. "Are you okay, dude? You didn't like, hit your head on the pool or something? Or slip in the lockers? How many Kurt Hummels do you know?"

Blaine opened his mouth once before closing it without speaking. "Never mind," he said at last, unable to think of a more coherent response.

Kurt. A cheerleader. Kurt Hummel. A Cheerio.

"I thought he'd already told you," Sam went on warily, not seeming placated by lack of the response. "I mean, it was kind of all over the place for a while here. But then he dropped it. I didn't see him perform, but Coach Sylvester still has those tapes on record somewhere. And there was like, a pep rally or something two years ago with him and Mercedes. You seriously didn't know about that?"

Blaine's mouth was too dry for a response -- there are tapes? -- so he just shook his head. "No," he managed. "No, he didn't tell me," he added a little more clearly, gazing in disbelief at the other end of the pool where Kurt was talking with Rachel in an apparently heated debate. His gaze flickered briefly towards Blaine before bouncing back to Rachel's. The quick connection made Blaine feel like he had been shocked, trying to picture Kurt in a Cheerios uniform and--

Don't.

Blaine shut those thoughts out forcibly, directing his gaze at Santana instead. She shot him a glare that promised bodily harm if he stared for more than two seconds. He wisely looked aside.

Sam was looking at him suspiciously, seeming tempted to ask another question. In the end, he simply shrugged and slid back into the pool as Schuester blew one last shrieking peal on the whistle. "Well, you can ask him about it," he hedged. "But don't tell him that I was the one who told you," he added, suddenly sharp. "He'll rip my head off."

Why? Was this supposed to be another one of those group secrets? Blaine thought, his previous anger at Sam flooding back as the latter swam off. It seemed like no matter how well-acquainted he became with the rest of the glee club there was always something he didn't know. Some story that the rest of the glee club could laugh about while he was just left fumbling in the dark trying to understand how it was funny. References to people and events and other stories that he didn't understand. A dozen other little quirks that kept him perpetually trapped on that Dalton Academy prep boy side.

I don't care, he thought, sliding into the water and ignoring the urge to follow Sam and demand details, I don't. I won't.

"All right, everyone!" Schuester said, mercifully distracting him from his thoughts. "Today we're practicing some basic lifts."

"For what?" Puck asked, pausing in his latest attempt to dunk Mike. "It's not like we're putting on a musical here."

And now Schuester looked nervous and abashed and still excited, his hands wringing together. Blaine wanted to groan, knowing already that that was never a good sign, but he kept his mouth shut as the latter finally spoke.

"Actually, we are. This is a proposal."

"Seriously?" Finn asked. He was standing in the four foot deep end, his torso jutting out of the water. "Who's proposing?"

Schuester's grin gave it away before he even opened his mouth again. "I am proposing . . . to Ms. Pillsbury!"

There was an immediate chorus of whoops all around, Blaine grinning slightly despite himself at the news. He didn't know much about the glee club teacher's romantic life, and he hoped that he could keep his awareness minimal, but it was one of those passing mentions Kurt had made whenever the drama reached its peak. A step towards engagement seemed like a definite step forward for him, and despite his doubtfulness that a pool performance was romantic, Blaine said nothing to protest.

"We still have a little over a week to prepare for this," Schuester went on. "So I really want to make this special."

"You can count on us, Mr. Schue," Finn piped in.

"Totally," Puck drawled, rolling his eyes. "So what kind of badassery proposal are we talking here?"

"Well, Sam's been working with Coach Washington a little--"

"Who?"

"Swim coach," Sam interjected, hauling himself out of the water so he was sitting on the ledge beside Schuester. "She's a little off her rocker but she's got some good stuff. Lot of cool ideas. And she's letting us borrow the girls' swim team."

Puck brightened visibly at the news, Rachel sulkily swimming closer to Finn and latching onto his arm as though to say that he was hers. He looked down at her, confused, while Mike and Tina just giggled a little in their corner, not even the slightest bit concerned.

"They're coming in on Tuesday to help out," he went on. "So we've got a few days to practice alone, and then we'll work with them for the rest of the week."

"In the mean time, we're going to work on basic lifts," Schuester said. "Find a partner and go on my whistle."

There was a brief scramble as everyone paired up, Blaine finding himself in front of a beaming Rachel. The maneuver was simple enough -- just reach, grip, lift, spin, and ease back down -- and it unfortunately left his thoughts blank to consider Kurt in a Cheerios uniform. He faltered at the mental image, nearly dropping Rachel, who squeaked a little and clung to his shoulders, glaring murderously at him as he lowered her back to her own feet. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, knowing that he didn't sound very apologetic and not particularly caring. His gaze drifted around the pool, finding Kurt as he lifted Quinn. Kurt's confidence in the pool was not helping his imagination at all as long, lean, wet arms briefly surfaced before he eased her back down into the water.

"Blaine. Focus," Rachel hissed, jabbing him sharply in the side with an elbow. He jerked, then scowled as he realized that he had been staring, to the point that even Rory was eyeing him with amusement. Kurt, thankfully, hadn't noticed, and Blaine used that knowledge to push himself through his embarrassment as they started working on different parts of the number.

It took only a half hour or so for them to finish the work, Schuester blowing the final dismissal whistle as they finished another, slightly more complicated lift. Blaine was closest to the lockers and consequently first out of the pool and beyond the doors. He was glad for the chilled air that slapped him in the face, forcing his thoughts away from Kurt and Cheerios' uniforms. He grabbed his towel instead and brushed off the worst of the water, shucking off his swimsuit in one of the closed areas and hurriedly tugging on his clothes. He was back in the main compartment of the locker room before any of the other boys had even arrived.

Closing his eyes, doing his best not to let mental images take over, Blaine wandered over to one of the more isolated rows of lockers and sat down on a bench, listening to the pattering of feet and echoing voices as the rest of the boys entered. It only took about three minutes or so before the noise had died down again, the boys exiting noisily. Blaine waited, waiting for that last set of footsteps to disappear, and was disappointed when, even after five minutes, they hadn't.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked at last, startling him enough that he leaped off the bench and was halfway to scrambling down the row before he realized that it was just Kurt. He relaxed, then tensed as he saw just how defined his shirt and jeans seemed even after towel-drying. It was unfairly easy to picture the uniform red-and-white hugging his legs and arms instead, Blaine's mouth running dry again at the thought.

Kurt eyed him, evidently concerned, before making a disgruntled noise and stepping forward to pop the collar on Blaine's shirt down properly. He hadn't even realized it had been off, just staring at Kurt while the latter looked back, the image of placidity. Kurt's hands smoothed down the lapels of his jacket with a familiarity that seemed almost mechanical disregarding the unnecessarily long time he spent lingering over the movement. Blaine said nothing, lifting his hands almost reflexively after a moment and clasping them around the back of Kurt's, trapping them on his collarbone. Kurt just looked at him, head slightly tilted, and Blaine suppressed a groan.

"Were you really a cheerleader?" he asked softly, disbelieving, while Kurt's hands tensed underneath his. He didn't try to retract them, his gaze cool and considering as he looked at Blaine now.

"It was . . . a passing interest," he said at last, his tone almost lofty. "Coach Sylvester needed an extra Cheerio and I was available." He shrugged, pulling his hands away, Blaine releasing them without thought. "Besides, she wanted a lead vocalist, and I was the only one that could hit the right notes while still keeping up with the performance. Well. Mercedes and I joined together, but then she quit because she didn't like it."

"And you did?" Blaine asked, fighting a grin.

Kurt stared at him, sensing the smile and not knowing how to interpret it, before nodding once stiffly. "It was nice to be part of a group where my individuality shone and I was considered part of the team," was all he said.

Oh.

Blaine nodded slightly, not wanting to say what they both knew -- that the Warblers had been a group that allowed that same team camaraderie while suppressing individuality. "I see," he said at last.

"It's not your fault that the Warblers weren't right for me," Kurt said, his tone almost gentle.

Blaine shrugged a little, wanting to set it aside as nothing and move on, but he couldn't. The possibility that Kurt and he could have both been at Dalton Academy right then, still performing with the Warblers and still living in the dorms, made his heart hurt to consider. The worst days had been when Kurt first transferred back to McKinley, Blaine spending unhealthy amounts of time simply sitting on the bed in his dorm room staring out the window, unable to stop thinking about whether he had been right to support the transfer or not. His instincts screamed that his priority had been to keep Kurt safe at all costs, and safe had not been associated with McKinley. Yet he had let Kurt go and not let his own hurt show and eventually, it seemed, things had settled down and worked out.

And then, of course, he had come to McKinley.

"They're not for everyone," was all Blaine said.

Kurt nodded slightly, looking at him uncertainly, before sauntering over and pressing an apologetic kiss against his lips. It was meant to be chaste, simple, brief. Blaine still started, surprised -- Kurt usually refrained from kissing when they were in school, and the lockers didn't bode particularly happy memories with him, either -- before sighing a little and wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist. Kurt seemed to like that he tugged him forward a tinny bit, shimmying the rest of the way until they were pressed up solidly against one other.

And suddenly all those hard angles smoothed by impossibly soft skin were keeping him lightly pinned against the lockers. Blaine didn't panic, even though some residual instinct warned him that he should be alarmed at the loss of control. He trusted Kurt, and more than that he trusted their contact now, that it was safe and unbroken and intoxicating. The lean jut of Kurt's elbows by his shoulders, the smooth length of his arms and torso and unending legs all bumping lightly against his own, combined with the mental image of Kurt in a Cheerios uniform proved to be too much for his control, however. The closeness was already enough to tantalize his imagination without any chance of reprieve, aware of what was offered now and still knowing that there was so much more that he couldn't have. Not here, not now, yet that it was possible at all was still more than he was prepared to deal with on an unexpected basis. He tried to pull Kurt even closer, his hands gripping the back of Kurt's jacket tightly, latching onto it. Kurt didn't seem to notice or care, his own arms locked around Blaine's neck as he lightly sucked on Blaine's bottom lip. The promise behind it, hesitant but still firm, questing but still convinced, did him in.

A soft, almost guttural groan escaped him, horribly loud and conspicuous in the quiet, and Kurt reared back as though he had been stung, breaking their contact off. There was one confused moment where their eyes locked, silent questions seeming to fly between them without a hope for answers, before Kurt turned on his heel and all but fled from the locker room. Blaine stared after him, confused, stricken, while trying to simultaneously understand the why of it. After a moment of blank staring at the empty locker room, he let his head thunk back lightly against the lockers, sighing deeply.

Damn it. You need to have better control over yourself. It was just a kiss.

He couldn't help it: the feel of Kurt, all lean muscle and soft arms and coiled strength, pressed against him was impossible not respond to. Perhaps it was a good thing he had scared Kurt off. Had they kept at that any longer, he doubted that he would have been able to stop himself from doing something even more embarrassing. The sheer thought made him blush scarlet as he remembered that they were still in school. Definitely not the time to be thinking of just how physically attractive his boyfriend was, or how good it felt to have him pressed up against him.

Opening his eyes and sauntering over to the locker he'd dropped his satchel in, Blaine shouldered it and walked slowly out the door. He was both relieved and slightly concerned that there was no sign of Kurt in the hallways. A conversation right then just might have made the remainder of Blaine's dignity fold.

He started it, a sly little voice pointed out.

Blaine mentally stuffed it in a drawer, shut it, and padlocked the door. It doesn't matter who started it. That was stupid. You shouldn't have reacted so strongly to it.

Still, the thought managed to sufficiently distract him from the rest of his classes, intruding whenever he least needed it and making it impossible for him to focus on any of his lectures.

Kurt started it. Kurt started it.

He didn't know that would happen, Blaine protested, sounding weary even in his own head as the bell finally rang and the students crowded at the door.

His cynicism wasn't done, yet, as another thought occurred: How do you know that he didn't know what he was doing?

And to that, Blaine had no response.


	54. Chapter 54

"Coffee?"

Blaine looked up and over at Kurt, surprised. He had been sitting on one of the benches outside of the Lima Bean, letting the cool, borderline frigid air clear his thoughts. Most of the patrons had opted for the warmer interior on such a day but he found the solitude refreshing, especially since there were so many thoughts on his mind. A dozen different emotions kept clambering to the surface of his mind, distracting him from any other menial tasks (including a project that was due for English that he knew he should be working on but had instead procrastinated on in favor of larger issues at hand).

Namely, Kurt, who was standing right in front of him holding two cups of coffee and wearing a smile that was half-wary, half-hopeful. Blinking at him, unsure how to respond, Blaine settled for shrugging and waving a hand airily at the opposite seat, inviting Kurt to sit there if he wished. Kurt did not hesitate, instead hitching on leg over the other comfortably and setting Blaine's coffee down in the space between them. Instinctively, Blaine reached out to steady it when Kurt let go, their gloved hands brushing infinitesimally. Without acknowledging the brief contact, Kurt took a long sip from his own coffee and pulled out a notebook, his fingers flitting through the pages with practiced movements.

Blaine couldn't help but stare as Kurt sped past dozens of pages with notes and other doodles, some recognizable as various outfit designs and others utterly incomprehensible to Blaine's untrained eye. He huffed once softly when he saw a picture of Rachel and Kurt, carefully taken one-handed with a camera, before Kurt's nimble fingers brushed by it. Looking up, Blaine saw that his brow was furrowed slightly and his jaw set in a determined line, his fingers only pausing once he reached a dog-earred page. Drawing a deep breath, he flipped to the next page, Blaine unable to help lifting an eyebrow in surprise.

Without speaking, Kurt folded the notebook so only that page was showing and set it between them, the unspoken offer not missed by Blaine. Gingerly, half-fearing that his fingers might accidentally break the spine of the book, he set it on his lap and looked at the design, tracing the contours of the drawing slowly.

A red heart, with the words Blaine + Kurt written in the center.

"I started drawing that the day you announced that you wanted to serenade someone on Valentine's day," Kurt said, his voice soft and conversational, his gloved fingers gripping his coffee cup as he took another long sip. Blaine suppressed a slight wince as he recalled telling Kurt all about his stupid boycrush on Jeremiah, enamored with the older, seemingly suave image he presented (in actuality, Jeremiah had been nothing compared to Kurt, although he might have been a nice guy to hang around with at a party). He couldn't help but let his thumb linger on the curves of the K, fascinated by the large, almost loopy scrawl, so different from the tight, elegant penmanship Kurt usually adopted.

"It was silly," Kurt admitted, Blaine looking at him and opening his mouth slightly to protest, until he noticed the faint smile on Kurt's lips, as though he remembering something fond instead of foul. "I was terrified of you finding out at the time. You almost did, you know. When you asked about those 'outfits' just before the emergency Warbler meeting." His head tilted to look at the drawing once more before his fingers crept up and he carefully tugged the page, taking another small sip of his coffee as he retracted it.

There was a single napkin pressed to the center of the page, dozens of tiny messages scrawled onto it. "You kept this?" Blaine asked, surprised, his fingers smoothing over the top of it gently.

Kurt nodded slightly, unabashed. "I . . . I liked knowing that even in Warbler practice you were still Blaine. You still did things you weren't supposed to and still tried to make sure I felt comfortable and accepted." His own hand reached out, one long forefinger tapping the edge of the napkin once delicately. "This was my favorite."

"This is right before Pav died," Blaine said, referencing the tiny date that he had signed on the back. Now that he was looking over the mini-sentences and phrases they had written back and forth to each other in the small square, he felt a certain, inexplicable warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. Kurt had saved this, this moment when he had teasingly written him napkin notes during Wes' lectures in order to make him feel a little less lost about the whole Warbler semantics. It had started off with a quick note asking what some reference or another that Wes had made meant that had soon developed into regular ways of avoiding procrastination.

Amazed that he had almost forgotten this, Blaine stared at the scribbles that nearly overrode one another, eventually coming to rest delicately under two words clearly written in Kurt's handwriting.

Hi, Blaine.

Nothing remarkable, surely, but just those words amidst all the others made Blaine smile brighter, made his coffee taste a little sweeter as he brought it up for another sip.

"I have most of the others," Kurt admitted, staring almost shyly down at his gloved hands. "I didn't want to seem too obsessed by showing you all of them at once." He looked back up, his gaze searching, and Blaine couldn't help but reaching out and giving his hand one firm squeeze.

"It's not obsessive," he assured. "I'm glad you saved them. I . . . I'd love to read them."

Kurt nodded again, looking contemplatively down at his coffee before reaching over to turn to the next page. There were more random scribblings, including a few notes that seemed directed at various future projects. Blaine smiled a little as his gaze skimmed the mini-letters, automatically zeroing in on his own name. From the notes that he read, there was a definite if fond exasperation with him, mentions of 'Blaine and the Pips' already beginning to seep in here. Grimacing a little at that, knowing that no matter how justified his arguments were he still dominated the Warblers unfairly, Blaine almost handed the notebook back to Kurt when he reached out.

Instead of tucking it away into his gray satchel, Kurt flipped through the pages more slowly, taking his time to skim-read the contents of the lengthier notes. Blaine watched in fascination as he worked his way through what had to have been hours of considerations and ponderings. Midway through the notebook his fingers stopped their relentless tread across the pages and he wordlessly handed the book back to Blaine.

Blaine's gaze remained on Kurt's face a moment longer than necessary before he looked down at the page. It was all in French, he realized after a quick glance, brow furrowing as he looked back at Kurt. "I write when I'm stressed," he admitted. "Those are all notes about Karofsky."

Blaine was silent at that, staring at the neatly clipped letters and trying to imagine what they said, whether they were positive or negative. There seemed to be little order to the notebook -- or at least, none that Blaine had seen, given the transitions from clearly early-day McKinley material to the present -- so he had no way to pinpoint what era of Karofsky Kurt was referring to. The bullying Karofsky that had driven him out of school, or the deeply homophobic Karofsky that had targeted him for years as a slushy and dumpster victim.

Kurt reached over and Blaine lifted his hands so he could turn the page. He couldn't help the slight laugh that bubbled out of his throat despite himself. There were at least a dozen multi-colored lines sprawled across the page, each pointing to one of the various glee club members. "We're one big incestuous family," Kurt said, shaking his head slightly as he reached out for the notebook. Blaine let him take it wordlessly, unable to help gripping Kurt's hand one he had set the notebook away.

"I . . . thank you."

It seemed inadequate, somehow, particularly considering how much of Kurt seemed embedded in the words and pictures. While the reality that there were still so many facets of Kurt's personality Blaine had never seen before, it didn't seem quite as intimidating as it had even ten minutes ago. The realization that Kurt was willing to show him things like this -- willing, even if he wasn't ready to share everything -- made some of the dread that Blaine had experienced after he fled in the locker room disintegrate.

"I don't want to shut you out," Kurt said, reading his thoughts while he turned his coffee cup slowly in his fingers. "I'm just . . . I'm not even sure what I want from you. I mean," here he blushed a little, the slightly pink tinge from the cold flushing to a full rosy hue, "I want to do things with you. I do." The insistence in his voice, lacking the slight, almost trembling quality that Blaine had come to associate with Kurt's nervousness convinced him that he was speaking the absolute truth. "I'm just not sure how to go about with it," he admitted at last, shrugging a little.

"So you . . . weren't upset with the locker rooms?" Blaine asked, wincing as the words replayed in his head. The look of surprise, borderline terror, had been enough to convince Blaine that he would let Kurt set the pace in their relationship even if it killed him a little inside not to be able to show him how much he appreciated him. How much he wanted him. Because no matter how tentative Kurt had been at first when it came to exposing skin for the pool numbers, he was easily the most attractive person Blaine had ever met. And with his exclusive privilege as Kurt's boyfriend, the prospect of having to sit tamely by and not respond when Kurt seemed to be all in favor of a response was nearly impossible.

"I was . . . surprised," Kurt said, breaking Blaine's reverie and making a blush spread across his own face. "But that doesn't mean I was repulsed by it, Blaine," he hurried to assure, turning slightly where he was sitting to look directly at Blaine. "And I'm sorry I ran away. I just . . . I didn't know what to do, and there's no one to ask about this sort of stuff and--" He cut himself off, his blush brightening. "Ugh. I'm such a baby penguin," he complained.

"No, you're not," Blaine countered, reaching over and squeezing Kurt's hand. "Kurt, no one knows how these things work perfectly the first time through. But that's what it's all about -- figuring it out. What would be the fun without a little uncertainty along the way?"

"I still think it would be plenty of fun without the uncertainty," Kurt quipped without heat.

Blaine intertwined their fingers, brushing his thumb soothingly against the back of his hand. "I think we could all agree on that, but that's not how it works," he reminded gently.

Kurt sighed, picking his coffee up and taking one last long gulp, wrinkling his nose as he set it aside. "I really do love you," he said, his words quiet enough that Blaine would have missed them if he had been sitting any farther away.

Not caring about the people that could see him doing it, he leaned over and kissed the tip of Kurt's nose once lightly. "That's good, because I really love you, too. Even if you were a baby penguin. Which you're not."

Kurt still looked doubtful, prompting Blaine to add, "Besides, rumor has it that Kurt Hummel was a pretty fantastic Cheerio, and there's no way Coach Sylvester would let an incurable baby penguin on her squad."

With a roll of his eyes and a slight quirk of his lips that looked unavoidable, Kurt shifted to his feet, tugging Blaine with him. "Flattery will get you no where," he sing-songed, though he looked somewhat placated at the gesture.

Blaine huffed, squeezed his hand, and said, "Who's flattering?"

* * *

Kurt knew that Blaine was not perfect, but he liked the mistakes almost as much as those aspects that did seem perfect.

Like the way Blaine always seemed to be just a step behind everyone else in the pool number, quickly picking up the choreography but usually missing the proper timing until the third or fourth repetition had taken place. Kurt had laughed when Rachel had told Blaine that theycould not be the only couple out of sync, their argument therein more amusing than genuinely hurtful. Eventually, Rachel had sufficed with the knowledge that Blaine did get things right when it push came to shove, but until then, Kurt was sure Blaine's performance was driving her a little crazy.

Kurt also enjoyed how Blaine never seemed able to style his hair properly without his precious gel, requiring Kurt to help him out after they were finished practicing, of course. The first time it had happened again had been an accident: Blaine had been brushing at his hair when Kurt had rolled his eyes and taken over, not realizing that he had done so until he was setting the towel down again with a satisfied smirk. Instead of looking annoyed like Kurt had expected him to be, he just smiled back and gave his arm a slight squeeze in gratitude, rolling his eyes when Mike barrelled past a moment later with Artie hot on his heels. It had broken the tension of the moment after, the hooting laughter of the other boys echoing off the walls, and Kurt had waited behind for Blaine before heading off to his later classes for once rather than fleeing at the first opportunity.

By Friday, they had perfected the pool number and everyone seemed in sync. Mr. Schue wouldn't stop smiling and blowing his whistle in equal parts, usually doing the latter to shout approval over the noise of Puck and Finn splashing at each other.

The first time Puck had splashed Blaine deliberately had seemed almost like an accident, just a fluke occurrence when Puck was clearly still interested in rough-housing with the other glee guys. Nevertheless, the gesture had been too well-timed to have been unintentional, and both Puck and Blaine knew it. At first, Kurt had stiffened with dread, anticipating a fight or some other biting quip from Puck, but instead Blaine just splashed him once back, not as forceful but still clearly challenging. Kurt had just enough time to hastily bob back to the wall where Rachel and Tina had been talking before Blaine and Puck were at each other, Mr. Schue's whistle ignored as Mike whooped from the sidelines. Kurt had no idea who had actually emerged triumphant from the fray, only certain that all of the boys were soaked and no one seemed to have escaped at least one good dunking. Kurt was surprised that once the water settled down Puck and Blaine were grinning.

Puck had moved off to tackle Finn and Blaine had sidled over to where Kurt and the girls were, casually pulling himself out of the water so he was sitting on the ledge. "So," he had said, brushing off his pants as though nothing more unusual than someone turning on a classroom's lights had occurred, "what's new?"

Rachel had been eager enough to expound fervently about her plans for their nationals competition, Blaine listening with admirable patience as she talked. Kurt enjoyed her company -- most of the time, although there were distinct exceptions -- but there were just times when it was a little overwhelming and it was nice to have another guy take over. Rachel liked explaining her projects to the other girls just as well, but there were typically less eager to stick around and better at making up excuses for why they had to be elsewhere. Having Blaine as a listening ear gave Kurt an opportunity to speak to Tina about her future plans instead, bobbing his head and bouncing back ideas until Mr. Schue had blown the whistle for dismissal.

It wasn't until after school on Friday that Kurt found himself trading soft, quick kisses with Blaine, almost a continuous kiss but for the breaks when Blaine smiled against him or chuckled softly. It seemed like ages had passed since the locker room when Kurt had panicked and fled before he had truly organized his thoughts. Now, knowing that Blaine was willing to try and figure things out with him even if they weren't perfect, had been both reassuring and a little terrifying. Until Kurt had realized that mostly, it was the same thing they had always done, just more open-minded. He had already convinced Finn that it would be a good night to spend at the Berrys -- a notion received without comment from Finn and a threat to plug his ears and start singing loudly and off-key if Kurt tried to offer any more explanation -- and his parents were both at a meeting regarding his dad's election.

Essentially, they had the house to themselves, and while Kurt had few expectations about what would happen, he couldn't deny the slight rush of exhilaration he felt that they could work things out a little more. Blaine obviously wanted to -- however much he was able to hide it beneath charm and politeness -- and Kurt wanted to as well. So, Kurt reasoned, nothing was holding them back, and that was why, rather than settling down to watch a movie on the couch with Blaine as he might have normally done (or baked something warm in the kitchen), he found himself sitting back on his haunches with one hand wrapped in Blaine's shirt so he wouldn't back away where he was standing.

After a moment's thought, Kurt broke away, eliciting a soft hum of disappointment. He laughed slightly, tugging Blaine's shirt a little pointedly until he got the message and sat down in front of Kurt, who scooted back to compensate him. For a moment, they hovered, suspended in a moment with eyes locked and fingers reaching out to brush against clothed arms and shoulders, before Blaine leaned in and Kurt welcomed him back eagerly.

Time lost most of its meaning then, just soft, questing hands that hardly ventured at all. It was Kurt who, after a countless period of time, let his fingers drift very carefully to the edge of Blaine's shirt, hesitating a moment before dipping just beneath. Blaine's breath hitched slightly but he didn't pull back, Kurt taking the sign for encouragement as he glided his fingers slowly, carefully along the warm, smooth skin of his stomach. His own breath turned a little ragged on the fourth passing, Blaine jerking a little as his fingers brushed over a rib.

"Tickles," he grunted.

For once, Kurt didn't take advantage of it, instead pulling his fingers away until they hooked around the edge of his shirt.

"May I?"

Blaine hesitated a moment, then nodded.

In the clear lighting of Kurt's bedroom -- he still hadn't bothered turn off the lights, half-afraid, half-lazy -- the lattice of scars of Blaine's left side was impossible to miss. Kurt bit his lip to hold in a surprised choke, his fingers setting the t-shirt aside carefully. Blaine's face had flushed scarlet in the mean time, his gaze averted to the ceiling and his hands clasped in his lap, looking suddenly and deeply uncertain. Kurt couldn't help but smiling a little at that, Blaine's own words returning to him as he gently reached out and traced his fingers just above the scars. Blaine shivered a little and shifted as though he might back away or come closer, seemingly torn between two very different urges.

At last he looked at Kurt, his eyes serious and searching. Kurt tried to look back with as much honesty and it doesn't change anything as he could. Blaine's lips still twitched in an almost wry grimace before he looked down at the scars, staring at Kurt's fingers where they traced just above them.

"You don't want to know," was all he said, his voice rough and low and surprisingly gentle.

Kurt nodded once, leaning forward to kiss him, to assure him that it was okay, before switching his attention to Blaine's wrist.

Now that he had full access to his torso, Kurt couldn't seem to stop his fingers as they walked the length of Blaine's arms, amazed at the full expanse of skin. The way the muscles shifted and bunched underneath his fingers, alternating tensing and relaxing, was even more fascinating up close. Blaine occasionally followed the path of Kurt's fingers with his own gaze, breaking away to watch until at last Kurt's palm rested against his heart, feeling the pulse racing just underneath. Blaine didn't move, hardly breathed as Kurt's fingers mapped out the contours of his chest.

It was broader than his own, dark hairs bristling closer to the center and trailing down. Kurt's face still burned slightly as he stared, Blaine's warm chuckle breaking him from his almost stupor-like state as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to his throat.

Kurt moaned at the sensation, his hands rising of their own accord to latch onto the curls at the back of Blaine's head and keep him close. Blaine didn't jerk away or stare at him with wide, terrified eyes as he was certain he had done when Blaine had done so in the lockers. Blaine just edged closer, crowding into Kurt's space in the best way possible, the heat radiating off him almost impossible to resist.

It took Kurt longer than it should have to realize that light fingers were tugging almost incessantly at his own shirt, just plucking at the material. In some corner of his mind he should have been frustrated at the wrinkles the motions were undoubtedly creating on the fabric. Instead, he found himself breathing in once deeply before unbuttoning the nearest button his fingers could reach.

Blaine's fingers halted his own before he could reach the third button, instead brushing twice over the knuckles before pulling at the fabric of his shirt instead. Kurt let him, breathing shaky and eyes closed, the feather light touches of Blaine's fingertips against his bare chest making him shiver.

At last, the shirt hung open and Blaine pushed it slowly off his shoulders, seeming to savor the unveil almost as much as what he actually saw. Kurt opened his eyes to look at him and found some of the newfound tension dissipating from his own shoulders at the look of pure awe in Blaine's face. Blaine's fingers hovered between them, his entire body frozen as he looked at Kurt, before he reached out and trailed his fingers very lightly over Kurt's sternum.

"You're . . . God, Kurt, you're so perfect," he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss against his chin. Kurt made a noncommittal hum-hum sound, Blaine looking up at him with incredulous eyes that just made Kurt flush pink.

"You're beautiful," he said, looking directly at Kurt as he said it, leaving no doubts as to who he was addressing or why. "You're beautiful and stunning and perfect and. . . ." He pressed his lips against Kurt's hard, his fingers resting against Kurt's shoulder slightly, thumb tracing over the skin, and Kurt leaned back willingly, only grunting a little when his head hit the headboard with a light thunk. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," Blaine said at once, Kurt rolling his eyes and reaching out to tug him back before he could back away and apologize for something that Kurt really couldn't care about right now and--

Oh. Oh.

He breathed out shakily, part-laugh, part breathless exclamation as their chests slotted together. Kurt hadn't meant to tug him down, per se, but now that it had happened and they were here--

It was nice. Really, really nice, and he couldn't help but just closing his eyes and relishing the sensation.

"Wow," Blaine breathed, Kurt letting out a slight snort of laughter because wow was really the only word for it.

Gingerly, Blaine lifted himself up, looking down at Kurt with dark eyes, his gaze lingering on his chest even more. Without thinking Kurt reached up and rested a hand along his cheek, relaxing a little when Blaine's gaze flicked back to him.

"Is this okay?" he asked softly, unable to help feeling exposed and more vulnerable than ever but somehow . . . happy. Blaine's warmth radiated off him, their brief contact heightening its intensity.

Blaine kissed him once, murmuring, "Absolutely," as though there could be no other answer.

Kurt didn't know how much longer they spent kissing and mapping out each other's torsos, his fingers lingering whenever they came across the scars on Blaine's side. Blaine didn't offer an explanation, shifting slightly until Kurt got the message and moved on. He did remember dozing off at some point to Blaine nuzzling his neck lightly, his entire posture languid and relaxed. Eventually, he heard the light flick off and blinked his eyes open, staring owlishly into the dark until Blaine flopped down on the bed beside him, tugging the covers over them both. Blaine tossed a leg unthinkingly over top of Kurt's as he settled in closer and, after startling a little at the gesture, Kurt relaxed and draped his arms over Blaine's back.

"Love you," he whispered.

"Lovutoo," Blaine sighed.

* * *

"Hey, Kurt, where's the --oh God, oh God, you're naked, oh--"

"Finn, we're not--"

"BYE," Finn said loudly, practically slamming the door shut while Kurt sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He should have realized that, with his upper arm exposed and his stepbrother's intelligence to consider, there really was only one possible explanation for his state of undress. Kurt was notorious for always insisting on at least a shirt and pants, whether it was simple or elaborate depending on his mood. Going shirtless for the night surprised him. Not in a bad way, just . . . new. Different. Pleasant.

Blaine hummed and wrapped his arms more firmly around Kurt's waist, scooting closer so his face was pressed against his shoulder. He breathed out contentedly, Kurt blushing slightly at the slide of skin on skin as he gently disentangled himself. With a disappointed whine Blaine peered at him through sleepy eyes, letting him go as he scooted away. "Finn's back," he whispered, brushing an apologetic kiss to Blaine's forehead.

He grunted, rolled onto his stomach and pulled the sheets over his head, snoring again in seconds. Rolling his eyes, Kurt pushed himself out of bed and hurried to throw on a shirt, practically rushing through his morning routine. He chanced a quick look at the clock and surprised himself to see it was two a.m.

What the--?

Yawning, surprised that he was awake at all, Kurt ambled out of his room shutting the door gently behind him, padding downstairs and nearly tripping over his own feet at the bottom. "Finn?" he asked, looking around, "Finn? Where are you?"

"Wait, you aren't still naked, are you? 'Cause, dude, I love you like a brother and everything but--"

"I was not naked," Kurt hissed, whirling around to glare at his stepbrother. His jaw hit the floor as he saw the -- bird that Finn had seated on the couch on one of his old coats. "What is that?"

"It's a crow," Finn said, brow furrowed while he looked over Kurt skeptically. Kurt rolled his eyes and stepped forward to inspect the creature only to rear back when it let out a warbling shriek at him.

"Out of the house, out of the house, out of the house," Kurt chanted, waving his arms to emphasize his point. "We are not having a bird in our house."

"Dude, it's hurt," Finn protested, gesturing at the bloody sheen across its wing. Kurt wrinkled his nose at the sight, shaking his head and flapping a hand towards the door.

"Finn, we can't take care of a bird. We don't know the first thing about aviary first aid or what sort of diseases it has or how many different infections it is spreading around this room at this very moment."

"It's a broken wing."

"It's not our business. Out."

The crow shrieked again, making Kurt flinch, and he glared at Finn pointedly. "What do you want us to do with it?"

"I thought we could patch it up," Finn said with a shrug. "You know, like on this animal TV shows and stuff."

"And be scalped in the mean time? No thank you."

"It's just a crow, how bad can it--"

The crow let out another caw, this one even louder than the previous ones, and tried to hop upright. Nested as it was in Finn's coat and with its broken wing flailing uselessly, it created a spectacular commotion without actually achieving anything. Kurt flinched as he watched, looking aside after a moment. "Just let it go, Finn," he ordered, his voice slightly less harsh than before. "There's nothing we can do for it, and it's probably terrified of being trapped in here, anyway."

"But we could just--"

"Finn."

"Fine." The latter reached forward to pick the bird up, flinching as it started pecking at his sleeve. "Easy, girl, I'm not gonna hurt you," he soothed.

The bird snipped at his wrist, narrowly missing flesh, and Kurt rolled his eyes as he shooed them towards the door. "How do you know it's not a boy?" he asked.

"Dude, I'm not going to check," Finn said, scrunching up his nose at the thought. "Gross. Besides, it's a bird." He shrugged as though this explained all, at last managing to bundle up the bird without being stabbed in the arm or neck. "Ready?"

Kurt gestured impatiently towards the door, holding it open when Finn was in reach and waiting for him to step outside. He shut it as soon as his coat was clear, walking over to the window to watch as Finn lovingly set the crow down on a snow bank, coat and all. The crow flapped its wings a few times and cawed before settling, Finn shaking his head as he walked back towards the door. Although tempted to just let him stay outside with his new bird friend for the rest of the night, Kurt let him back in, stepping back while Finn shut the door.

"I still think that's pretty cold, leaving a bird out there alone," he sulked, stepping over to the kitchen and pulling out a bag of Doritos.

"Don't take the whole bag," Kurt chastised, rolling his eyes as he pulled them away. "You're unbelievable." He pulled out a clear plastic bowl and shook a decent-sized portion of chips into them. Finn eyed the bag mournfully as Kurt handed him the bowl, sitting down at the table with a harrumph. "So, I thought you were at Rachel's?"

"And I thought you and Blaine were watching Finding Nemo again or something," Finn retorted, popping a Dorito into his mouth and crunching loudly.

Kurt grimaced and rolled his eyes. "We weren't naked," he said firmly.

"I saw bare flesh," Finn shot back. "That--"

"Has nothing to do with being naked," Kurt insisted in a hiss. "Were you and Puck naked over the summer just because you were shirtless while playing basketball?"

"Dude, it was hot and -- oh. Oh. Really? You could've just turned the heater down. My mom always cranks it up at night when she thinks your dad's asleep. He usually turns it down around midnight when she's asleep."

Kurt wanted to slap his forehead -- or, better yet, Finn's, since that might actually make an impression -- but he settled for just shaking his head as he slid down into a seat at the table. "So why aren't you at Rachel's?" he repeated.

Finn shrugged, pulling out a handful of chips and popping them into his mouth. "'Top secret emergency planning,'" he recited. "Sounded important. I didn't want to ask."

"So you brought home a bird instead?"

"I thought you two were watching Finding Nemo," Finn huffed. "How was I supposed to know that you . . . ?"

Kurt's fingers clenched into fists slightly, exasperation warring with genuine frustration that Finn was so clearly upset about it. He had seen more than enough of Finn and Rachel sucking face. Finn had been shirtless so often it was almost a surprise to see him wear shirts to school on a regular basis.

"We didn't do anything," he repeated harshly, almost slamming his chair back as he stood up. "It's late. I'm going to bed."

"Whoa, dude, I didn't mean it like that--"

"Well it sure as hell sounded like you did," Kurt snapped. "God, Finn, who cares if Blaine and I were shirtless? Why is this such a big deal to you?"

Finn was silent, not even picking his way through the last of the Doritos Kurt had rationed out for him. At last, he said in an almost small voice, "I didn't mean it like that. It's just . . . I don't wanna see my brother doing stuff with his boyfriend. Y'know?"

"I don't want to see you sucking face with Rachel, but you don't hear me freaking out about it," Kurt snapped, folding his arms over his chest as he glared at Finn.

Finn sighed and stood up, abandoning his Doritos entirely as he looked at Kurt. "I'm sorry," he said, his gaze serious. "I just freaked out, and it was stupid, and I don't want you to think I'm some sort of homophobe because of it. I'm happy that you two are happy together." He shrugged in a way that said, I don't know how else to convey my sincerity, and Kurt sighed as he shook his head.

"Just . . . don't jump to conclusions, okay? It's bad enough dealing with the rest of McKinley and Lima on a regular basis. I don't need it here, too."

Finn nodded, still looking concerned that he hadn't done enough to convince Kurt he was sorry, before offering a tentative fist. "We still cool?"

Kurt stared at the proffered fist for a long minute, uncomprehending, before sighing slightly as he realized what Finn wanted and gingerly tapping his own fist against it. "Barely," he warned, retreating towards the stairs. "And make sure you clean up after the bird," he added, pointing towards the couch.

He heard Finn sigh behind him but didn't bother look back as he climbed the staircase. He was slipping back underneath the warm sheets of his bed in moments, shutting his eyes and feeling Blaine twist around so he was facing him again.

"So what's the verdict?" Blaine murmured, tracing his fingers soothingly along Kurt's arm and pausing when he felt the fabric of his shirt. Kurt could almost feel him tense a little, uncertain suddenly about his own appearance, but Kurt just rested a hand on his shoulder in return, fingers splayed, and Blaine relaxed.

"Finn still freaks out when he thinks we're having sex," Kurt assured, his thumb brushing in absentminded circles near Blaine's collarbone.

"He's your brother," Blaine reminded gently. "Of course he's going to freak out." He yawned, then, nuzzling closer to Kurt and breathing a little more deeply. Kurt almost thought he had gone back to sleep when he added suddenly, "I'm proud of you, Kurt."

Kurt blinked, surprised, and asked, "What for?"

"Being willing to . . . try new things." He shrugged a little bit, Kurt almost able to see the half-sheepish, half-satisfied look on his face. "I'm kind of liking this side of Kurt Hummel, too," he admitted.

Kurt huffed a laugh, some of his frustration with Finn draining away as sleepiness took its place. "And now you are definitely flattering," he assured.

"Mmm. No'way."

Kurt smiled. "Go to sleep."

"Only if you do."

Scooting closer, draping his own leg over Blaine's this time, Kurt whispered, "Fine."

He had no idea who ended up falling asleep first, just remembered the soft, rhythmic pattern of Blaine's breaths, his own evening out as he thought, I could get used to this.


	55. Chapter 55

"The glee club cannot afford this sort of setback, William. We are already over-budgeted with our sports' programs and cannot finance a trip of this magnitude."

"You paid for the entire cheerleading squad to travel across the country for Nationals," Mr. Schue protested, the indignation clear in his voice. Kurt knew it was wrong to eavesdrop but had walked by Principal Figgins' office and heard the mounting argument. Unable to resist when he heard the words 'nationals' and 'complications' bandied around, he had slid surreptitiously to the side wall where most people would simply walk by. It was discreet enough that it was unlikely Mr. Schue or Figgins would notice him, yet still close enough that he could hear their conversation clearly. Insofar, the news hadn't been positive.

"Sue pays for her Cheerios with alumni donations," Figgins went on emphatically. "They provide more than half the funding for the local competitions alone, and the entirety of her out-of-state budget!"

"What about all those extras the school provides?" Mr. Schue demanded. "The spa treatments, the heating and cooling systems, the cannon?"

"Schue, you know that Sue is entitled to her full Cheerios' budget in addition to the donations," Figgins said. "I know it seems unfair on the surface, but let's face it: Sue is better at raising money."

"That's because she terrifies her donors," Mr. Schue snapped. "Figgins, you have to give us a break. We can't afford to go to nationals without the school's financial backing, and we don't have time for any last-minute fundraising like last year."

"I'm afraid that I can't help you, William. My hands are tied. The school board has issued its financial budgets and finalized each department's earnings. You are welcome to petition for a greater share next year, but until then, there's nothing I can do."

There was a long pause, the sound of a hand being dragged through unkempt hair. Kurt winced, easily able to visualize it. At last, a heavy sigh and the sound of a chair being scraped back against carpet. "These kids have worked hard for this," Mr. Schue said, the quiet intensity in his voice startling Kurt. He knew that there were moments when the truly dedicated glee club teacher emerged from behind the hapless counterpart that typically ran the department, but it still surprised him to hear it. "I'm not going to let them down. Hell, I'll pay for it myself, if I have to."

"You will pay for sixteen teenagers to travel to New York for four days?"

"If that's what it takes," Mr. Schue said simply. "We'll make it work. I'm not giving up like this. Not because of Sue's budget being greater than the glee club's." Kurt could almost see the way his nose wrinkled, the way his fingers clenched around each other as he stepped away from Figgins. "Thank you for your time," he said stiffly.

"Schue, I would do more if I could," Figgins said, sounding weary.

"I understand," was all Mr. Schue said, his tone giving away his disbelief as he stepped out of the office. Kurt watched as he walked down the hallway in the opposite direction, ideas already chasing themselves around in his mind.

We can't afford to go to Nationals.

We're not going to New York.

Panic gripped him momentarily, tight and intense, making his throat feel closed and his heart pound. It lasted only a second before he managed to mentally shake himself back to the present, reminding himself that New York was only an acceptance letter away even if they didn't get to go for Nationals.

But how are we supposed to pay for it?

Replacing the instant panic was anger. Anger that, even after working so hard for four years to be noticed, to be heard and accepted and even admired, the glee club still lost in the bigger battles. The school board still sided against it at every turn and most of the other departments thought it was useless. The thought of sparing any of their precious cheerleading budget on a group of singing misfits had to appeal to those observing them as much as it did to Coach Sylvester. The thought that money -- or, rather, lack thereof -- could take away their chance to compete and take the stage by storm, to be victorious for once instead of lost in the background, infuriated Kurt.

He slid out of his nook carefully, hardly noticing the hockey jock that sneered as he almost bumped into him. It had been so long since Big Quench cups had been seen that Kurt didn't bother duck or cringe away from the hand that rose automatically to slushy him. Without the icy drink to accompany it, the curled fingers were a feeble threat, the hawkish gaze of Coach Beiste seeming to bear down on the jock's shoulders as he scurried away. Kurt didn't spare her a second glance as he kept walking down the hall, only pausing when Coach Sylvester caught him with a hand on the shoulder.

"Long time no see, ladyface."

Kurt breathed in deeply through his nose to stifle the immediate urge to throw out a snappish retort. Years of listening to the jocks dish out worse had bred in him a constant need to throw out barbed comebacks before the actual insult could sink it. Usually it worked -- unless the person being addressed was Coach Sylvester. In which case throwing out a casually offensive remark would probably be the last thing he ever did.

"What do you want, Coach?" he asked instead, keeping his voice neutral and unalarmed.

"A little rat told me that a certain Cheerio isn't going to make nationals this year because of budget issues."

"Do you mean Principal Figgins?" Kurt asked before he could stop himself.

Coach Sylvester's face broke out into an unpleasant smile. "I knew I could count on my eavesdropping gargler. Fortunately for you, one of my Cheerios had a breakdown this week after I told her to lose six pounds and I have an extra seat on our bus."

Kurt huffed inwardly. "I'm not going to hop ship, Coach," he said, infusing as much polite refusal as he could into his voice.

If anything, Coach Sylvester only looked more amused, shaking her head and wrapping a vice-like arm around his shoulders as she steered him down the hall beside her. "Porcelain, your spirited attempts to protect that babbling club of misfits are not going to benefit you in the long run. People like you don't tie themselves down to a sinking ship. They branch out. And they take over new ships, plunder every living being within a forty-mile-radius, and reap the benefits of their decisions." Kurt ignored the questioning looks Rachel and Mercedes gave him as he and Coach Sylvester walked past, mouthing Later and redirecting his attention to Coach Sylvester as she continued.

"I know that you've applied to top-notch schools," she said, stopping in front of the open door to the gymnasium where a group of Cheerios were already working on warm-up stretches. "And I also know that those places don't care about glee clubs that never even made it off the ground. They want people who actually get off their lazy behinds and do things."

"Glee club is doing something," Kurt protested quietly.

Coach Sylvester shook her head, almost sadly. "Glee club is a fun way for creepy old Schuesters to relive their perverted adolescences. It's nothing something that big schools are going to see as anything more than a footnote on an otherwise empty list. Now, unlike your band of outcasts, my Cheerios earn more scholarships than any other program in this school."

Kurt's ears perked up slightly at the mention of scholarships in spite of himself. Even after his dad and Carole had insisted that he apply to schools like NYADA, he knew that the financial burden of attending those colleges would put serious strain on the family as a whole. Receiving scholarships -- and hefty ones at that -- was the only way he could hope to keep his head above rough financial waters when it came to his future. The fact that the New Directions didn't have any (except at the nationals' level, a quiet voice reminded) had admittedly given Kurt some doubts over time.

"Male vocalists are particularly keen to attract the eye of potential scholarship donors," Coach Sylvester added nonchalantly. "With a face like yours and a voice to boot, I can guarantee some money will come your way."

"But I haven't been with the Cheerios that long," Kurt pointed out, his doubts reasserting themselves.

Coach Sylvester shook her head. "Doesn't matter. As long as you attend the competitions, you're in consideration for any one of them."

Kurt paused, considering that. It would certainly relieve a great deal of his stress about college if he could pick up an additional scholarship to the financial aid and other school-offered scholarships that he might earn. He already knew that his dad would support him no matter what path he chose to take (as long as it wasn't harmful to him, of course) and that cheerleading was not something he had ever expressed any resentment or distaste over. Joining the squad would be physically exhaustive for a time but he would adjust and soon be just as agile and prepared as the rest of the group.

In short, it wouldn't be difficult to return. Biting his lower lip, Kurt almost caved.

"I can't," he said at last, his voice coming out in the same neutral, detached tone from before. "The glee club . . . we're in this for the long haul, Coach." And that was it, really. No matter how simple it would have been to join the Cheerios and compete for scholarships, he couldn't abandon the glee club, not now, not like this. Not after I spent most of the summer trying to convince Blaine to come here and join it in the first place, he added silently. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said aloud, turning on his heel.

He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, slightly more restraining than before but not painful. "Be careful, porcelain. You walk away from this opportunity, you won't get it back."

He closed his eyes, facing away from her -- she wouldn't see it that way -- before shaking his head. "I'm not going to quit the New Directions for the Cheerios," he said, softly but firmly, tugging his shoulder from her grip. "Thank you for the offer, but no thanks."

And he walked away, her cool, "Very well then," haunting him long after he was out of her sight.

* * *

"So what's wrong?" Blaine asked, ambling close to Kurt and lightly rubbing his shoulders. They were standing in the shallow end of the pool, the first two out of the locker room for a change (the rest of the New Directions would take at least five minutes to arrive, considering the fact that the bell hadn't even rung yet). It was quiet, peaceful in the waters without the others crowing at each other or attempting to tackle one another to distract them. Kurt almost smiled, his face remaining stoically neutral even as some of the warmth from Blaine's hands seeped into his shoulders.

"You're so tense," Blaine noted, almost teasingly, before resting his chin on his shoulder and looking at Kurt expectantly. Kurt sighed, knowing that there was no way that he could brush off the sudden desire to be alone with Blaine before the rest of the New Directions came barging in as nothing. There was a knowing glint in Blaine's eyes that said he would pursue any attempts at dissuasion fiercely. Kurt didn't even try.

"I'm just . . . worrying about college," he said quietly, only partially lying.

Blaine pressed a light kiss to the side of his neck, lingering for a moment longer than necessary and making Kurt's eyes close before he pulled back to look more fully at him. Kurt opened his eyes obediently to look back, the warm hazel of Blaine's gaze soothing him inexplicably. "Don't be," he said seriously. "You'll have plenty of time for that later."

Kurt breathed out a weak laugh, shaking his head. "It's not like that," he said, almost bitterly, a soft hum of satisfaction rumbling in his throat as Blaine's fingers traced over his shoulders with just the right amount of pressure. He didn't attempt to massage any of the knots out or work on his middle or lower back, just stayed in the comfortable turf of Kurt's upper back and shoulders. It was incredibly soothing, the feel of Blaine's palms more comforting than words could properly explain. "I worry about it all the time," he blurted, not loudly but still jarring. Blaine's fingers paused.

"I wish you wouldn't," he said at last, Kurt sighing deeply in exasperation.

"I can't not," he said, waving a hand in a frustrated, meaningless gesture. "I can't stop thinking about what happens if I don't get into NYADA, or New York, or college and I'm just trapped as this washed-out graduate without any chance at college."

"Not everyone goes to college right after high school," Blaine pointed out gently. "Some wait a few years, you know. Find a job, build up their savings, and then enroll."

"I don't want to wait," Kurt sighed, turning abruptly in Blaine's arms to face him. There was one moment when Blaine's hands, still moving automatically, traced the width of Kurt's chest, a shudder coursing up his spine at the feeling.

"Sorry," Blaine said, already retracting his hands. Kurt latched onto them, holding them to his collarbone and stroking his thumbs over the backs. Blaine hesitated, clearly torn between, But we're in school? and I like this. In the end, it was clear which won out as Blaine stroked Kurt's upper arms, compromising.

"It's going to be okay," he said, emphasizing each word as he spoke, looking directly at Kurt. "If you're meant to be in New York, you'll get there, Kurt."

"And if I'm not meant to be anything?" Kurt asked.

Blaine huffed. "You're Kurt Hummel. You're already someone incredibly amazing, and I doubt that that's ever going to change." He shuffled closer, leaning up to kiss Kurt once, briefly. "Even if it takes longer than you think, or it's not the place you thought you'd originally be, you're going to find your place and it's going to be something great," Blaine assured. "Life's full of surprises."

"How true."

Blaine jerked apart from Kurt as though he'd been shocked, whirling around as Kurt tensed, his gaze locked on the jock. "The hell are you two doing in here, anyway? Trying to screw in the pool now? Can't keep it in your pants?"

"I suggest you leave," Blaine said, his voice low and surprisingly dangerous. Despite knowing that he was completely unarmed and relatively defenseless from his position, Kurt honestly believed for a moment that Blaine could somehow hurt the other boy. There was a pause when the other boy seemed to acknowledge it, too, before he sneered and shook his head.

"Think you're so tough, fag?"

Kurt had to grab Blaine's arm because he just lunged for the other boy, his entire frame rattling with barely contained energy as Kurt held him back.

"Do us all a favor and get the hell outta this school," the jock said.

"And I think somebody outta get the hell out of my pool room," a different voice said. "'Sup, Kurt, Blaine?" Puck added, stepping out of the locker room clad in his swim gear and glaring at the jock. "Thought you had practice, Tyler."

Tyler looked at Puck in deepest disgust, shaking his head. "They've converted you, too, huh, Noah?"

"If by converted you mean he--" he gestured at Blaine, "--can kick your ass halfway to San Francisco and I'll get it the rest of the way, then yes, I have been."

Tyler snorted, seeming to hesitate on the verge of walking over and challenge Puck more directly before Finn and Artie emerged from the locker room. "Whatever," he said, stalking out.

"Bastard," Puck said after him, hopping into the pool and splashing Kurt and Blaine. "'Sup, midgets?"

"I'm not a midget," Kurt said heatedly, Blaine scowling in general agreement.

"Whatever. You should totally thank me for that, by the way. Tyler doesn't have any brains left to get him through geometry, but he can still beat the crap out of people that get in his way."

"Why would he be in here, anyway?" Blaine asked, his voice descending into the lower register that Kurt knew was a mixture of anger and anxiety. Any mention of 'beating up' unnerved Blaine, regardless of whether he admitted it aloud or not; it was clear in the way his shoulders tensed and his entire posture shifted to a more defensive stance, like he expected someone to come rushing at him for the mere mention of it. Absently, Kurt wondered about the lattice of scars along Blaine's left side, marks that he had still yet to ask Blaine about their full history. (Part of him was worried he would upset Blaine, another part worried he wouldn't be able to handle the reply.)

"He probably heard that we were having a swim party and wanted to join in," Puck said dismissively, his tone clearly giving away that he neither knew nor cared about the jock's reasons. "Schuester's off wooing Miss Pillsbury for the day so we're just here chilling until Coach Beiste gives the signal, anyway."

Kurt blinked, surprised to realize that today was the day that Mr. Schue had planned to propose to Miss Pillsbury. Was already in the process of doing, if Puck's words were to be trusted. Suddenly eager and anxious in equal parts, Kurt gratefully sank into the productive chaos that ensued as the rest of the New Directions appeared through the doors, Artie wheeling around carefully and setting up the sound systems with Brad's assistance while the rest worked on making sure they knew the order of the choreography. Kurt threw himself into his work, glad to have a distraction, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Blaine was only partially into the activities. About to go over and try and cheer him up, Kurt was intercepted by Puck who, after tossing Blaine an exasperated look, splashed him once, hard.

"Up and at 'em, hobbit," he said.

Blaine sputtered a little but quickly retaliated, emerging from the wall of water than ensued grinning and ready to go. The girls' swim team arrived within the hour to work on final preparations, their efforts working seamlessly with those of the New Directions. Not daring to turn on the music in case Miss Pillsbury came across them, they worked carefully, occasionally bumping into each other and laughing when it happened.

And when finally Coach Beiste walked in and gave them a quick thumbs-up before hurrying back out into the hall, Brad was standing ready at the sound system, his expression bored as usual. After three long minutes of utter silence, everyone standing in a line near the far end of the pool, Brad cranked up the sound and pressed play, the first notes of We Found Love beginning to fill the natatorium.

With the music, it was even better than without. The New Directions flowed seamlessly from movement to movement, the girls' swim team hardly noticed as they were incorporated into each gesture. The only stumble occurred when Artie flung himself dramatically over the end of the pool, several of the girls converging upon him to hoist him into his inflatable chair. It was a nerve-wracking thirty seconds but somehow, without missing a beat everything fell into place. Kurt had to force himself not to focus on them as he kept up with the rest of the group, his mind sinking into that familiar place where choreography took over and his body moved and he felt confident and powerful and certain.

His heart leaped a little when he saw Blaine lifted up by the girls, wobbling a little on the ascent but otherwise smooth and steady as he beamed at Miss Pillsbury. Unscripted, he blew her an exaggerated kiss, Kurt stifling a snort of laughter at the gesture even as Blaine flung out his arms and collapsed backwards, the sound of the splash swallowed by the continued throb of the music. It wasn't long before the last notes began to fade away, the entire group coalescing around Mr. Schue as he stood in front of Miss Pillsbury, soaked to the bone and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

It seemed surreal to Kurt that this was the same man he had seen mere hours before talking heatedly with Principal Figgins. That it was the same man who, on a regular basis, made mistakes and offended people more often than not when it came to the glee club. And the same man whose first marriage had failed terribly after his wife's pseudo-pregnancy (among other details).

But watching him propose to Miss Pillsbury and seeing her elated response was like an elixir for Kurt. He relaxed, whooping with the rest of the group and even lacing hands with Rachel and just bouncing up and down until at last Blaine half-tackled him from behind and Rachel laughed and ambled off to hug Finn. Miss Pillsbury and Mr. Schue had already fled, leaving the New Directions and girls' swim team alone but triumphant.

"That went well," Blaine said, grinning as he squeezed Kurt's waist before pulling back a little.

"What makes you say that?" Kurt retorted with a smile, flicking his nose lightly.

Blaine scrunched up his face and backed away to join in the rest of the general hurrah, whirling around just in time to meet Mike as the latter leapt at him in a tackle. They went down with a tremendous splash, Santana swearing at them in Spanish as they drenched her and smacking Mike's arm as he emerged, Blaine popping up a moment later and splashing furiously. Santana almost got him with a good punch but he managed to shimmy away before she could, promises of revenge trailing after him and Mike.

Shaking his head to himself, watching the fight in amused satisfaction, Kurt let himself forget college for an afternoon and just enjoy high school.

* * *

"Niiick, it's too early for phone calls," Kurt whined, settling himself on Blaine's back. The latter had buried his head underneath one of the pillows and resolutely ignored the vibrating phone, leaving Kurt to attend to it. Half-tempted to shake him awake or yell at him, Kurt just draped himself over his back, ignoring the muffled grunt when one of his elbows caught his ribs.

"Why, hello, Kurt."

All fatigue flew from Kurt's brain in half a second. He sat upright so fast that he flailed and knocked Blaine hard in the head, the latter sitting up quickly in surprised, tensed and half out of the bed.

"What's going on?" he asked, voice sleep-hoarse and spooked.

Kurt shook his head, pressing the phone tightly to his ear and gritting his teeth, jaw clenched as Sebastian spoke. "It's been too long since we've spoken."

"How did you--?" Steal Nick's phone?

Blaine went rigid beside Kurt, edging nearer in a fruitless attempt to listen in. Kurt himself could almost hear the smirk in Sebastian's voice as he answered, a wry, unpleasant smile that belonged on a shark.

"I didn't steal his phone, in case you're wondering. I just played around with the contacts on Blaine's phone a little while it was in my care."

Scowling, Kurt hit the end call button without another word, turning the phone off and tossing it onto the floor. Blaine was staring at him in surprise, his expression a mixture of surprised and concerned. There was a slight knock on the door, the only warning they had before Kurt's dad appeared, blinking owlishly in the dark. "It's two in the morning," he rumbled, his voice more bear-like than human.

"Sorry," Kurt whispered. "Rachel called."

For a moment, his dad squinted at them, Blaine having mostly fallen off the bed in surprise at his appearance while Kurt just jerked around. At last, his dad gave a grunt and said, "Tell her that we're only open until eleven," before closing the door partially behind him, the requisite two inches of spaces still there.

Kurt let out a shaky breath of relief as he sank back down to the mattress, only blinking in surprise when he heard a slightly distressed-sounding whimper. "Blaine?"

"I'm stuck."

Unable to help himself, Kurt let out a soft snort of laughter and hauled himself back up, sliding over to the side of the bed Blaine had half-fallen off of. He was indeed tangled in the blankets so thoroughly that it was a miracle he could move at all, wriggling in a weak attempt to free himself. The moment he saw Kurt he stopped, looking at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes and even though part of him was tempted to leave him there for amusement, Kurt sighed and relented. Shimmying over, he tugged on the blanket and planted a foot against Blaine's back, giving him a nudge that, combined with the tug on the blankets, effectively sprawled him on the floor.

"Thanks," Blaine wheezed, oomphing as he hit the floor.

Kurt said nothing, just crawled back to his side of the bed and wrapped the blankets tightly around himself, not bothering release his hold when Blaine clambered back onto his side. It didn't even occur to Kurt to be surprised at his dad's nonchalance. Blaine was such an accepted presence around the Hudson-Hummel household that trust between him and Kurt's dad just seemed natural. Kurt's dad knew that they were teenagers and in love and had been in a relationship for a year, but at the same time he respected that Blaine and Kurt would respect his limits as a father, too. And sharing a bed was like having a sleepover, anyway. (Not that Kurt's dad hadn't taken the majority of the summer to warm up to the idea.)

"So who was that?" Blaine whispered, cuddling close to Kurt.

There was a moment, a single moment of I shouldn't lie to him when Kurt almost told the truth.

Then he just shook his head, said, "Anonymous hate mail," and Blaine made a sympathetic noise and scooted closer, Kurt's legs folding around automatically so they were spooning. It was warm and comfortable and quiet, but the peacefulness from before had been lost, the air filled with a new threat.

Well, now we know he's done with standing aside, Kurt thought bitterly, feeling more than seeing Blaine's breath evening out, his thumbs tracing inane patterns over Kurt's side. Swallowing the guilt at not telling Blaine -- because he knew in his heart-of-hearts that if Blaine knew he would go after Sebastian and put himself in danger and Kurt didn't want that because Blaine just couldn't protect himself from Sebastian -- Kurt closed his own eyes and tried to let sleep take him.

He had no idea how long it took, but eventually he drifted off, dreams of shadows staring at him haunting his sleep until at last he awoke at five and slid out of Blaine's arms, warm and pliant. He stumbled around the floor and found the cell phone, unbroken and unscathed. Gingerly, he turned it back on, the vibration not waking Blaine. Almost immediately, another vibration followed, a text sent from the same number as before.

Kurt hesitated, then opened it. This isn't over.

Shivering, Kurt deleted the text and any trace of the phone call, adjusting the setting from vibrate to silent before tucking it away. Glancing at the clock, yawning silently as he saw how early it was, Kurt crawled back into his bed, trying to get back to sleep. After several frustrated moments of lying unsuccessfully on his side, he turned around and faced Blaine, whose head was once more halfway buried underneath a pillow, soft snores muffled further by the fabric.

Don't tell him, a small voice whispered, Kurt's fingers ghosting down Blaine's side, coming to a pause over his shirt where he knew the scars lingered underneath. He gently rubbed his fingers over them, not enough pressure to wake Blaine but just enough to map them, to try and understand how they had happened. Keep him safe.

Kurt drifted off again without knowing it, the words drifting through his head like a mantra.

Don't tell him.

Don't tell him.

Keep him safe.

Keep him safe. . . .

* * *

For six days, Sebastian was silent.

Kurt waited anxiously for a return call, always on the verge of bolting for Blaine's phone every time it vibrated and stiffening until Blaine snorted a laugh and said it was one of the Warblers, former or current. David had been feeling chatty lately and the constant texts were starting to make Kurt's nerves go haywire, but he didn't dare mention to Blaine the call from Sebastian, not when he could practically feel the trap waiting for him. It seemed like the moment he let Blaine into the loop he would make it real, that Sebastian was still interested in tormenting them no matter what.

Exhausted by the constant wear of not knowing, Kurt blinked back to awareness as Mercedes nudged his shoulder with her fork, grunting slightly in distaste. "That's gross," he complained, while she calmly speared another forkful of lettuce and popped it into her mouth.

"It's just a fork, Kurt. And you were giving me those zombie eyes again. What's gotten into you? I'd think you were getting your mack on if Blaine wasn't so energetic."

"Mercedes," Kurt hissed, his face blooming scarlet as he glanced around the cafeteria. "Do not talk about that."

"What? You're my boo. I'm entitled to embarrass you at least once a month about your boyfriend." Kurt opened his mouth to protest but Mercedes was already continuing, her hands reaching across the cafeteria table to squeeze his. The room was crowded but not uncomfortably so; just enough noise to keep everyone else enveloped in their own conversations and leave Mercedes and Kurt separate. "What's got you down?"

"I'm just . . . thinking."

"Kurt, hun, I've known you since sixth grade, and liked you since sophomore year. Don't BS me."

Kurt scowled, turning over his own lettuce with his fork absentmindedly, his tray otherwise untouched. At last, he set the fork down and leaned close, his voice a whisper, almost a hiss.

"Sebastian is back."

Mercedes blinked, evidently dumbfounded. "I thought that Barter guy was taking care of him?"

Kurt shrugged, toying with a particularly rotten-looking piece of lettuce. "He did. But there's no rule that he can't call or text. . . ." He trailed off, shrugging slightly.

"So tell us where he is and we'll give him a piece of our minds," Mercedes said.

"It's not like we can just go to Dalton and kill him, 'Cedes," Kurt quipped, rolling his eyes. "And honestly, I haven't even heard from him in almost a week. Maybe he gave up."

His expression must have been less convincing then he thought as Mercedes shook her head and gave his hands a squeeze before standing up. "It's not fair that he can keep harassing you boys like this. I don't like it."

"I don't like it much, either, but there's not exactly anything I can do about it," Kurt put in dryly, picking up his own untouched tray. He knew he should eat something -- he couldn't even remember the last meal he had done more than nibble at -- but his appetite was gone with thoughts of Sebastian in mind.

"Of course we can. We can take the fight to him."

Kurt blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "How?"

"Why wait for him to make the next move? Look, Kurt, I get that he's a jerk but he's still human, too. Maybe if we . . . intimidate him a little, he'll back off."

"He's not very easily intimidated," Kurt warned. "It's not like the two of us are going to be any more effective than the dean was."

Mercedes' grin was borderline mischievous as she said, "Then it's a good thing there's more than two people in glee club, isn't it?"

* * *

It had been surprisingly easy to get the New Directions' support and arrange for the impromptu 'attack.' Of course, Kurt had been adamant about leaving Blaine out of the loop, but once Mercedes had dragged him into the choir room he had had little choice but to tell him as well. The look of hurt and shock on Blaine's face had almost been enough for Kurt to back off the entire scheme, the support of the New Directions' buoying him through it. Finn had immediately agreed to help, eager to prove his loyalty, and the rest had soon followed, only Santana giving them a long look before deeming it worth her time.

The drive to Dalton Academy had only taken two hours, but it was still dark by the time they had arrived. Most of the New Directions wore hoodies for warmth, not wanting jackets to impede their movement. They slipped wordlessly around the campus under Kurt's instruction, arriving at the back parking lot without incident. He had already texted Nick and Jeff beforehand to warn them. Their responses had been grim but determined, assuring him that they could get Sebastian out to the parking lot as requested.

Twenty minutes, Kurt had asked. Twenty minutes to talk with Sebastian on level ground. No matter how cool he was in the face of Kurt alone or even people like Barter, there was simply no way Sebastian could be emotionless when faced with the full threat of the New Directions.

They made it to the parking lot, standing near the edge. After a moment's pause, Santana ventured forward, her entire stance conveying confident boredom as she reached the middle of the lot. "There's no one here," she said at last, her voice dry and unimpressed as she walked back over to them.

Finn shifted uneasily, Puck flexing his arms, the rest of the glee club standing in various stages of tension and relaxation. Brittany, of course, didn't look alarmed, Rory only looking mildly intrigued. Blaine was rigid, tense and unmoving as he looked around.

"This is unexpected," Sebastian said, the smile in his voice all too evident as he strode around the New Directions. As one, their attention shifted to him, the patter of feet as the rest of the Warblers stepped up behind him amplifying his entrance. Coldness settled in the pit of Kurt's stomach as he looked at them, Nick and Jeff standing at the forefront looking stoic, their gazes flickering to Kurt's and conveying a brief sense of, Just go along with it.

"Come for a little taste of the competition next year?"

"We didn't come to sing," Blaine said in a low voice, stepping forward even as Kurt reached out instinctively to pull him back. Sebastian barked a laugh, sizing him up and shaking his head.

"Didn't you?"

"You need to stop messing with us," Blaine growled.

Sebastian laughed, full and chilling, his voice too loud in the empty parking lot. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen any time soon."

"Because you're an insufferable bastard?" Santana's voice startled Kurt, her steps smooth and unwavering as she stood beside Blaine, staring at Sebastian. "Or because you've got enough blazered hounds behind you?"

The Warblers shifted as one, a ripple of unease. As though they were moving in tandem, the New Directions also edged around, half-cornering the Warblers. There was a long pause during which no one spoke, the voice of an unfamiliar upperclassman breaking the silence.

"We don't like the accusations you keep throwing at Sebastian," he said, his voice low and soft.

Sebastian grinned, showing off his teeth. "You see, Blaine," he said, speaking directly to said boy and ignoring the rest. "You're no longer the head Warbler around here."

"You're suspended," Blaine pointed out in a similarly low voice. "You can't be the head Warbler on suspension."

Sebastian laughed softly, stepping forward, the Warblers flowing behind him. Kurt spared a glance at Nick and Jeff, both of whom appeared unconcerned by the newest development. Still part of the plan, then. He held his stance even when Sebastian stood a mere five feet away, his entire stance eased and relaxed.

"So we're not having a sing-off," he said slowly, surveying all of them with cool eyes. "Interesting. Then as long as I'm not technically participating in any Warbler activities, I can do this."

It happened too quickly for Kurt to register what actually happened next. One moment, they were all close enough that he could almost feel Sebastian's breath on his neck, knowing that it was impossible to do so and still sensing that shuddering, unpleasant feeling of being trapped. Kurt had moved to shift his weight to his right leg instead of his left and suddenly he was being shoved backwards and nearly falling to the ground, the wet sound of something hard and icy smashing into a solid object nearby.

Dazed and fumbling for coherency, ears ringing as he realized that Sebastian was holding a now-empty Big Quench cup, Kurt's heart stopped as he saw Blaine lying on the ground, his face spattered with orange slushy, low, agonized screams escaping him. Kurt couldn't understand it -- Blaine had been slushied before and survived, had been slushied multiple times in a single day and hardly voiced a complaint -- and now here he was, writhing on the ground with his feet curled towards his chest and a slow, steady whine of pain building underneath his choked-off screams.

What . . . ?

Kurt was crouching on his knees beside him, collapsing, really. He didn't even wince as the rough pavement dug into his knees, crawling forward and resting his hands against Blaine's shoulder and waist. "Blaine?" he asked, voice breathless and soundless against the backdrop of the retreating Warblers. "Blaine, honey, what's wrong?"

Blaine didn't answer, moaning in pain as he curled inward tighter, tighter, and all Kurt could register underneath the fracture-line tremors racking Blaine's frame and the agony of confusion and loss and terror was that Nick and Jeff were gone.

And they hadn't said a word.

They planned this, Kurt realized, his stomach lurching as he fumbled and flailed around Blaine, wrapping his arms around him and pressing close, wishing he could do something, anything, that would help.

Oh, God, they planned this.

It took everything Kurt had not to be sick right then and there, because Blaine was hurt and in pain and needed him, and that far superseded his own needs and wants.


	56. Chapter 56

Blaine had always been an energetic drunk. Rather than flopping into a melancholic pit of despair as some did, he usually gravitated between 'I just won the lottery' happy and 'why have I never seen this before?' ecstatic. It had been amusing to watch, to say the least, when he had been safely corralled in the Berrys' basement and away from potentially negative influences (read: Sebastian Smythe). Had that particular evening not progressed any further, Kurt might have actually thoroughly enjoyed watching his would-be boyfriend fumble his way around. His kiss with Rachel had rather quashed any good feelings Kurt had had about the evening, however, and soon they had been entrenched in the Great Bisexual Debate of 2011.

(And Kurt could privately admit that yes, he had been a little insensitive about the issue as a whole, but the thought of Blaine leaving him for Rachel over something as silly as a drunken kiss had made him feel like the bottom of his world was dropping out and he just couldn't live with that. Blaine had never pushed the issue of bisexuality once they had mended things -- over coffee and careful talks, of course -- and Kurt had never seen the need to bring it up again.)

Blaine on pain killers was different.

He was still handsy and more cuddly than usual and, Kurt could admit, more childish. But unlike his intoxicated self, he didn't sprout amusing anecdotes that he had acquired from friends over the years. He didn't make jokes or argue philosophy or supplement Kurt's conspiracy theories with his own ideas (a game developed solely for the amusement of listening to Blaine's convoluted explanations for many of the greater mysteries). He didn't even beg for Kurt's company, something that drunken Blaine insisted on far more often than sober Blaine did.

No, Blaine on narcotics was quiet.

Kurt didn't even know how many hours had elapsed as he sat in emergency room waiting area before his dad and Blaine finally emerged from triage. The latter swayed slightly with every step, squinting at the ceiling and rubbing his uncovered eye constantly. Kurt's dad had an arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him from bumping into the doors as he continued to rub at his eye. There was a medical eyepatch covering his right one, a difference that Kurt immediately noted and loathed. It was clear that there was gauze underneath, preventing Kurt from seeing whether or not his eye would heal at all. Part of him was grateful to be spared the sight of Blaine's ruined eye; another part simply wanted to know that it was reparable, and seeing the eyepatch only made Kurt's throat tighten with dread, increasing his feeling of trepidation that it couldn't be fixed.

The doctors had given him a relatively clean bill of health, however, and a veritable mountain of eye care instructions that a nurse had written down. Kurt didn't listen to any of them, letting his dad handle the logistics while he stopped Blaine from walking into a nearby door. Blaine flinched momentarily when his arm wrapped around his waist to steady him before turning his head enough that he could see Kurt, relaxing with a tired sort of smile.

Kurt managed a small smile back despite the sick feeling that welled in his gut, hating that momentary panic that not being able to see who it was that had sneaked up on him had caused Blaine. It should have been him that had been slushied by Sebastian, he knew, not Blaine. Even in the chaos that had ensued following the immediate slushying, it was impossible to mistake that Blaine's shove had been purely coincidental. He had meant to push Kurt out of the way, and he had, and he had suffered the consequences because of them.

Resolving to take it one step at a time, to loath the situation later and worry about Blaine now, Kurt waited impatiently for his dad to finish filing the discharge papers. It wasn't a simple process, but Blaine's age worked in their favor -- he could sign himself off, not needing a parent or guardian around to do so. Kurt had hated the way his hand shook a little as he held the pen, his good eye squinted as though he was trying to remember exactly how it all worked. Doing his best not to let his concern show too much, Kurt had just squeezed his waist and said nothing.

The worst part came when they were leaving the hospital.

It was a fairly mild night, one of those rare evenings where light, autumn-based jackets replaced wintry ones. Another reason why the New Directions had been able to get away with wearing hoodies to the meeting, Kurt thought, the sick feeling multiplying until he half-feared he would vomit all over the pristine white floors of the hospital lobby. He made it outside without incident, however, and he would have made it to the car without even acknowledging the change if it hadn't been for the way Blaine suddenly tensed, actually digging his heels into the pavement when Kurt tried to keep walking forward.

Kurt's dad loped ahead, leading the way, but Finn was trailing behind them and nearly bumped into Blaine. The latter started violently, backing into the bright lights of the hospital lobby and shaking his head a little, trembling as he retreated from Kurt's grasp. Finn blinked owlishly at them both, surprised.

"Kurt?" his dad called, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk as Blaine stood stiffly in the middle of the hall, back to them and breathing deeply.

"Just . . . give us a minute," Kurt implored softly. He edged closer to Blaine, unsure if he should touch him or not, provide that physical contact as reassurance or let Blaine keep his own barriers in place. In the end, he stepped around in front of him, making sure that he made eye contact before reaching out and gently laying a hand on his folded arm.

He didn't say anything, just brushed his thumb over the soft skin slowly. Blaine relaxed incrementally, at last lowering his arms and letting Kurt lace their fingers together. Trust me.

Blaine's fingers jerked when Kurt moved towards the door again but he didn't stop him. He just followed slowly, carefully, gripping his hand tightly and staring ahead, unblinking. Kurt knew that he would bolt at the first sign of danger, wouldn't even think twice about the possibility that it was innocent -- not when he had lost part of his vision. Temporarily, Kurt reminded himself sternly, never more grateful to see his dad's old truck parked nearby. It was bad enough watching Blaine panic inwardly without being able to help or change it; it was worse knowing that the slushy had been intended for him, not Blaine.

They slid into the back seat wordlessly, Finn hopping in the front passenger while Kurt's dad took the wheel. Kurt buckled without thought; Blaine fumbled with it for a moment, fingers clumsy and uncertain, before sliding it into place. He sank back against the seat, boneless, and Kurt scooted closer, opening his arms to him. It was eerily similar to their positions on the drive to the hospital; Kurt with his arms wrapped around Blaine, Blaine with his head resting against Kurt's shoulders, the steady thrum of the engine lost to their ears.

Kurt didn't remember the drive home. He supposed that he must have dozed off -- it was late, and Westerville's main hospital was still well over an hour and forty minutes away from home -- because one minute he was humming under his breath to fill the silence and the next he was being gently shaken awake. "Kurt, dude," Finn whispered loudly. "We're home."

Kurt blinked and sat up, wincing as his neck creaked uncomfortably. It was only as he reached to unbuckle his seat belt did he realize that the warm weight beside him was Blaine. He hadn't stirred, just sinking a little lower in his seat when Kurt shifted to unbuckle.

"Blaine?" he said, reaching over and resting a hand on Blaine's arm, gently stroking. Something warned him not to shake him or yell; judging by Blaine's reaction to the parking lot earlier, he supposed that similar rules applied to being startled awake. Kurt's heart clenched as the thought, pushing his own worry aside. "Blaine, honey, wake up. Blaaaine."

The latter stirred groggily, good eye slitting open, half-mast. "Hmm?" he grunted.

"We're home."

"Hmm," Blaine repeated, closing his eye once more.

"No, no, come on, let's go," Kurt said, unbuckling his seat belt for him and manipulating his arms through the loops. He hopped out of the car and walked over to Blaine's side, tugging him to his feet. "Come on, a bed is much more comfortable than the car."

Blaine whined as Kurt half-led, half-dragged him along, stumbling into the door frame and grunting once. "Careful," Kurt cautioned, guiding him through the threshold.

"Though' you were . . . leading," Blaine argued sleepily.

"Shh," Kurt urged, not wanting to argue. It was late -- past midnight, now -- and all he wanted now was to sink into his bed and sleep for days. It had been exhaustive, the waiting, the dread that it was his fault, his fault, his fault, the final unveil and seeing that Blaine had an eyepatch.

An eyepatch.

What the hell did Sebastian put in that slushy?

His rage resurfaced at the thought of Sebastian, threatening to overtake him. He eyed the couch longingly, half-tempted to just set Blaine up there and drive back out to Dalton and make Sebastian hurt. Make him feel the same agony that Blaine had felt, the same agony that was meant for him, the same agony that the Warblers had just turned their backs on and ignored.

That Jeff and Nick had ignored.

Kurt's jaw tensed but Blaine slouching slightly against him reminded him that he couldn't do any of that, because Sebastian wasn't worth leaving Blaine. Not when Blaine needed him more.

The stairs were more challenging than Kurt had originally foreseen. Instead of just leading Blaine up them, he had to pause at every other step to let the latter raise his feet correctly. Twice he stumbled, gripping Kurt's hand hard enough to hurt before releasing it and hurriedly climbing the offending step. By the time they reached the top, Kurt could have sworn that Blaine was more awake, from sheer nervousness, if nothing else.

It quickly faded once they moved into Kurt's room. With sluggish movements Blaine slouched over to the bed and, without preamble, sank onto it, curling his feet up onto it and pressing his good eye against the mattress. Kurt yawned and kicked off his own shoes, hastily shedding his more elaborate wear and selecting a comfortable shirt and pair of pants to throw on. Despite Blaine being practically catatonic on the bed and clearly not paying attention to him, he still blushed slightly as he stripped hurriedly from his jeans into a more comfortable pair of pajama pants. Once in the new, warm clothes, however, it was all Kurt could do not to flop gracelessly onto the remaining half of the bed.

Coaxing Blaine to uncurl enough so he could tug off the slush-sticky hoodie wasn't too difficult, although pulling it over his head without upsetting the eyepatch proved to be harder than it looked. Blaine whined and batted at his hands, eventually sinking back onto the mattress with a deep sigh of contentment when Kurt managed to get his hoodie off.

Deciding that his shirt would be too strenuous for both of them, Kurt shucked off his shoes -- slushy still stained the tops of them red -- and set them aside.

Satisfied, he tried to coax Blaine under the covers of his own coercion. Blaine didn't bother with responses, just breathing slow and deep, limp and unhelpful. Kurt sighed and hopped onto the bed behind him, hooking his arms underneath Blaine's and tugging him back until his head rested against one of the pillows. Blaine rolled onto his side, curling his fingers into the material and hugging it close, ignoring Kurt's attempts to get him underneath the covers themselves.

Deciding it would be easier to just leave him be, Kurt fumbled in the semi-darkness for his fur blanket. He draped it over top of Blaine carefully, waiting until it settled before walking over to the other side of the bed. He eyed his vanity briefly, debating whether or not he should do his skin care routine -- he couldn't allow himself to become so lazy with it that he never did it anymore, after all -- but deciding that sleep was a far greater temptation and conceding the fight.

Crawling underneath the covers, Kurt sighed deeply as he turned to face Blaine, watching his back rise and fall slowly. Like this, he could almost pretend that nothing had happened, that the band looping around Blaine's head securing the eyepatch in place was just a well-formed shadow. He reached out and gently ran his fingers over Blaine's shoulder, just tracing the contours of bone and muscle. His fingers glided mindlessly down his side, pausing where, underneath the t-shirt, he knew those same scars from before lay.

Kurt closed his eyes, resting his palm flat against them. The sight of Blaine -- back to them, too afraid to walk through a parking lot alone because of what had happened -- had hurt Kurt. Coupled with the knowledge that it hadn't been mere intimidation but actual pain that had deterred Blaine from wanting to return to that particular scenario, Kurt wished again that he had been the one to take the slushy.

Sighing, knowing that he couldn't do anything to change any of it, he let his hand rest against Blaine's waist, tracing small circles there until at last sleep claimed him.

* * *

"How is he?"

Rachel's voice was oddly fragile, lacking its usual gusto as she sprung up from her seat. Kurt unconsciously gripped his satchel tighter, hating the feeling of responsibility that bore down on his shoulders. Even though he knew that technically it was Sebastian's fault, all Sebastian's fault, he couldn't help but assume at least partial blame for Blaine's current condition.

If he hadn't stepped in, shoved Kurt aside, he wouldn't be the one lying in a near stupor on Kurt's bed at home, alternating between listening to music that Kurt had left close at hand for him (all he needed to do was press a clearly visible 'play' button on a remote and use the arrow keys to adjust the song) and sleeping. Kurt himself had had a restless night, waking up multiple times to Blaine thrashing around, lashing out and soundlessly flailing against unseen opponents. With persistence, Kurt had managed to calm him down, wrapping himself around him in a human cocoon and doing his best to reassure him. It was difficult with Blaine barely coherent enough to distinguish between reality and sleep, let alone process Kurt's words. They must have helped, though, because they had been able to sleep until morning -- when Blaine had startled so violently at being held that he had smacked Kurt in the face with an unwary elbow.

Thankfully, the mark wasn't visible and Kurt had been able to downplay the injury to nonexistence once Blaine calmed down enough to realize where he was. And promptly start whining about the pain in his eye as he reached up to rub at it, Kurt catching his hand just before he could do so. He had had to wake up his dad to figure out what he was supposed to do, involuntarily waking Carole in the process. She had taken over -- finding the pain medication and keeping a running tally of what needed to be done, including redressing the bandage. Kurt hadn't looked when she had peeled off the eyepatch to replace the gauze underneath, instead busying himself downstairs with breakfast. He knew he was being cowardly, but the thought of actually seeing Blaine's eye -- less than a day after the attack -- seemed too real.

Besides, when he had returned to his room after an ample twenty minutes, Blaine didn't begrudge his absence, only opening his arms hopefully and whining a little when Kurt shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he'd said, setting up the iPod on its dock and giving Blaine the remote. He had already decided to move the TV from the basement up to his room after school, but for now, the iPod should have sufficed. "I have to go. You'll be okay?" he couldn't help but asking.

Blaine shrugged, suddenly moody and quiet, seeming to retreat into himself a little as though he had overstepped by complaining in the first place. With a sigh, Kurt had stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, hoping he understood that it was purely necessity. He had two important finals (math and science) that he couldn't afford to miss, not to mention glee club and the nationals' plans that needed to be hammered out.

It still felt strange doing something as silly, as mundane as planning for a singing competition when Blaine was still at his house, the lingering threat of what if hovering over what would happen regarding his sight.

"He's . . . doing better," Kurt said truthfully, his voice soft and tired as he ambled into the choir room, taking a seat in the front row next to Tina and Artie.

"What's wrong with him?" Mercedes asked, her voice gentle and equally quiet.

Kurt shrugged a little. "It's his . . . right eye. The cornea is deeply scratched, and . . . he has to have surgery."

An audible ripple of disbelief coursed over the choir room. Kurt blinked a second longer than necessary, using the darkness as a temporary reprieve. He knew what they were thinking -- how unfathomable, how unreal it was that a slushy could ever cause this much damage -- but he also knew that it wasn't a normal slushy.

The doctors themselves had been flummoxed, simply because their immediate concerns had been to reduce Blaine's pain and not necessarily sit around deducing what specific malice had caused it. All Kurt knew was that it must have been some form of gravelly material -- be it finely ground rocks or otherwise -- to cause the corneal abrasion.

Still, speaking the words aloud gave them even more severity. It had been surreal when the doctors had said it last night. Listening to it echo now, the words spoken from his own lips, was almost impossible to believe.

"What's going on, guys?" Mr. Schue asked, his voice bright and overly cheerful as he stepped into the choir room.

As one, the New Directions seemed to come back to themselves. Finn was the one who spoke first, explaining the slushying incident in a calm, almost detached voice. Kurt knew that he wasn't actually unaffected by the fact that Blaine might lose his sight in one eye because of it, but hearing the dull tones did little to comfort him.

Nothing would, he reflected grimly, unless anyone carried a time-machine in their back pockets. In which case he would gladly accept the opportunity to reverse the clock and ensure that Sebastian Smythe never existed, let alone had the chance to injure him or his boyfriend.

"Have you talked to the authorities?" Mr. Schue asked, his expression grave.

Finn shrugged a little. "The Dalton headmaster said he was working on it," he said simply.

Kurt's fingers dug into his palms a little at the word Dalton, the image of the blue-blazered boys all gathered around Sebastian springing to his mind.

All of them. Nick and Jeff included.

"Well, you still should talk to the police," Mr. Schue pressed. "Stuff like that's serious. I just can't believe someone could do that to another kid."

Kurt pressed his palms against his forehead, deliberately tuning out the rest of the conversation.

I can.

* * *

The math final was awful, but at least Kurt managed to scrape together coherent responses for the calculus problems before the bell rang. He felt even worse about the science test -- physics had never been his strongest subject, but at least he somewhat understood the theories -- and was relieved when he was freed from the constraints of his classroom.

Mercedes intercepted him just as he was closing his locker, hiking his satchel comfortably up his shoulder. "Hi, 'Cedes," he said, his voice not rising above the soft, tired tone he used before. It took him a moment to realize it was the first time he had spoken since that morning.

"Hey, Kurt," she bounced back, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder once before dropping her hand back to her side. "I'm really sorry about what happened to Blaine."

"It's fine," Kurt said automatically, shrugging, then smiled bitterly. "Well, it's not fine, but it's not your fault."

"I know. I'm just sorry that something like this happened at all. He's such a nice guy and . . . ." She shrugged, trailing off. "I just can't believe that Sebastian guy would do something like that. And in front of all his friends, too--"

"They're not his friends."

Kurt's words were low but fierce, absolute. "They're not his friends, 'Cedes," he repeated quietly. "Not anymore."

Mercedes hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Whatever they are," she said, "we're all here for you. And if you need any help getting rid of a few of them. . . ."

"I don't want vengeance," Kurt bit out, pulling slightly on his satchel strap, eying the door longingly. "All I want right now is for Blaine to be okay." Even as he said it, he felt the lump in his throat, a combination of guilt and rage and frustration that he couldn't do anything to help Blaine.

Mercedes' hug startled him slightly but he didn't protest, instead sliding his arms around her shoulders and giving her a brief squeeze in return before letting her go. "If you need me, boo, you have my number," she said seriously. "I don't care what time it is. And Rach says the same. Don't feel like you have to deal with this all alone. We're all here for you. And Blaine."

"Thank you," Kurt said, managing a small smile before he followed the path to the exit. He knew that Mercedes was being helpful, and he appreciated that, but . . . Blaine's recovery wasn't something any of them could help. Kurt could barely do anything, and that was with the benefit of pain killers on his side.

Sighing, trying not to dwell on those thoughts too much, Kurt hopped into his Navigator and turned on the ignition, sitting silently in his parking spot for several long moments.

He could drive out to Westerville. It would only take two hours, and then he could find Sebastian and personally ensure that he understood the magnitude of wrong that he had inflicted on them. Could make him hurt as he had made Blaine hurt, make him scream, break, feel their pain somehow, to some extent. He knew that it would cost him, that he would likely suffer repercussions that could ruin his aspirations at NYADA, but the thought of finally cracking Sebastian's unshakeable exterior was almost enough to convince him.

In the end, though, he found himself in his own driveway. With a sigh, he got out of the Navigator, vowing that he would do something about Sebastian.

Just . . . carefully. When he wasn't so volatile that his first thought would be punch first, be rational later.

* * *

No matter how reserved or almost shy the drugs made him, Blaine still retained his desire for company. Kurt found himself spending copious amounts of time as a human pillow, becoming an expert at one-handedly texting people and writing out the answers for certain assignments. Still, in spite of his lingering guilt over the fact that he was the reason Blaine was like this at all, Kurt couldn't help but distance himself from the problem as time passed. It started out gradually -- he would still spend time after school with Blaine first, usually spending the entire afternoon and then evening around the house. Then it became evenings alone, the afternoons delicately stolen away by plans for NYADA and nationals' setlists to be devised.

Mercedes, Marcus, and Sam were entrenched in a new love triangle as well, sufficiently distracting Kurt from boredom whenever she needed advice.

Rachel and Finn were in a rough patch of their relationship but managing to cope as the idea of long-term commitment was bounced back and forth frequently. (Kurt swallowed his comments about the idea of them marrying in high school hard; he wasn't about to engage in that particular storm unless it came.)

Mike seemed a little more melancholic and distant, but Tina insisted on spending more time with Kurt, teasingly mentioning how she would be left behind while everyone else left to chase their dreams. (At which Kurt had shifted into soothing mode because it made his heart hurt to think of what it must be like to have to say goodbye to a boyfriend or girlfriend because they couldn't maintain a long-distance relationship like that.)

Even Sugar Motta managed to insinuate herself into the daily affairs of the New Directions, regularly campaigning for her acceptance into the club (under the strict provision that they would all worship and applaud her every move). It had eventually come down to a heated debate between Mr. Schue, Sugar Motta, and the New Directions. After bribing them with the necessary funds for the nationals' trip (something that even Kurt had to gape at, because what sort of father let his daughter gamble that much money when he barely knew what she was up to?), she had been cheerfully situated in the back of the club. (Much to her disapproval, but they obligingly applauded when she spoke and laughed at her awful jokes.)

By the time Brittany started insisting that Kurt needed to modify the student hand book so it allowed sugar sticks to be passed around during all classes, Kurt was spending more time out of his house than in it, and consequently, less time with Blaine. For his part, Blaine was unbothered; he just smiled whenever Kurt was with him, occasionally bobbing his head in a nod, and only offered a wistful expression when Kurt left, usually finding sufficient entertainment on TV to enrapture him.

Still, as Kurt basked in the sun of an unexpectedly warm afternoon, he couldn't help the knot of guilt wrenching his stomach. It was good to have free time, he reminded himself sternly, and before Blaine started living at the Hudson-Hummels near full-time, they had had long periods of separation, too. Even now, sipping at a cooling coffee as he scribbled down plans for the future on his notebook (namely, items he would need once he moved into a dorm or apartment), he couldn't help but think that it was cruel leaving Blaine by himself while he was free to roam around wherever he pleased.

Snapping his notebook shut decisively, he tucked it away into his satchel and picked up his coffee, setting off at a brisk pace for his house. Normally he would have just driven home, but with the weather finally -- finally -- warming, he didn't want to waste the opportunity.

As expected, Blaine wasn't up to much. It had only been three days since the incident, and his painkiller dosage was still high enough that even when he was awake for sustained periods, he wasn't the best conversationalist. Finding him sitting listlessly on the couch, staring at the television as though it contained all the answers to the greater mysteries in life, Kurt couldn't help but smile fondly at his rumpled appearance even as he berated himself for not even trying to remedy the situation.

Because when Blaine's good eye flickered up to him, there was a flash of surprise and almost pain at the sight of him that made Kurt cringe. "Hi," he chirped, voice overly bright in the semi-dark room as he plopped down on the couch. "What're you watching?"

He already knew -- the bright, laughing tones from the screen were hard to mistake -- but Blaine just shrugged and answered, "Ellen."

"Do you want to take a walk?"

Blaine perked up visibly, one hand already fumbling the remote even before he eyed Kurt cautiously, seeming to doubt his sincerity. "All right," he hedged at last, letting himself be pulled to his feet. It took a few attempts for him to properly slide them into his shoes, but he managed without too much difficulty. Kurt smiled at him, only losing some of its warmth when he saw the eyepatch.

The walk was admittedly refreshing, albeit shorter than normal. Kurt kept his pace slow and even, chattering aimlessly about plans for the present and future. He brought up Finn and Rachel's absurd proposals that they should marry now, expecting Blaine to laugh. The latter said nothing, just shuffling along obediently until at last they came to the end of the block. Kurt changed the topic and Blaine's face acquired the same animated look from before, alternating between watching him with avid attention and staring at the sidewalk.

At last, too curious not to ask, Kurt blurted, "What are you thinking about?"

And Blaine said, "The Warblers," while looking at him in the same tone he might have used to say, "Please pass the salt."

It was unnerving, how blank and emotionless the words were.

"Have you . . . ?"

"No."

Kurt pursed his lips. "Barter's already--"

"I know."

Kurt knew he did, too, in some corner of his mind. Their correspondence was simply natural and expected, something that he didn't even need to ask to know. It was reassuring somehow, knowing that he had an ally in Barter, and a strong one at that.

"Are you going to forgive them?" Kurt asked at last.

Blaine paused, the mid-afternoon light shining starkly against his eyepatch. "Would you?" he replied quietly, turning to look at Kurt after a moment, the flat betrayal in his eyes a mixture of anger and hurt.

Kurt said nothing.

No, he thought.

Then: Not now.

The rest of the walk was silent.

* * *

Kurt sighed as his phone vibrated. He had just gotten to settle down after a long day of helping Rachel and her dads move boxes around their house (apparently they had decided to repaint the study to give it a more sophisticated look) and was rather looking forward to a marathon of 'Ace of Cakes' when his cell buzzed on his leg. Blaine didn't stir beside him, his head resting on Kurt's shoulder, his fingers resting placidly on Kurt's thigh, assuring himself he was there.

Picking up the phone, ready to rebuff the glee club's attempts at conversation, he stopped cold when he realized who it was.

Scowling, he deleted the text and set his phone on vibrate, almost able to feel it buzz three minutes later with another incoming text. Same number. Without opening the message, he deleted that one as well. The process continued for almost as an hour, the same number, the same texts, until at last there was genuine silence on the other end. Kurt tried to feel relieved, to enrapture himself more thoroughly in the show (even though he knew that that frosting would go straight to its eaters' thighs), but he couldn't do it.

Not when Jeff started texting him five minutes later.

Closing his eyes, half-tempted to scream or at least turn his phone off, Kurt instead carefully picked up the phone and hit the open button. He didn't read the message -- it was long enough that his eyes could skip over it without picking up on more than a few pleading words -- but he did type out a swift, brutal response.

Blaine and I don't want to talk to you. Any of you.

A long, long pause. At last, a message from Nick (Kurt groaned aloud; hadn't an hour been enough?), one from Jeff, and one from Trent.

He clicked open, hating himself for it, and swallowed at the words.

I'm sorry.

God, Kurt, I'm sorry.

I'm so, so, so sorry.

Deleting them all without responses, he silently turned the phone off.

'Sorry' wouldn't make Blaine's surgery any less an impending matter (just two more days; Kurt ran his fingers anxiously down Blaine's arm, mostly to assure himself that he was still there). Sorry wouldn't disprove the fact that he had been brutally, unnecessarily attacked by one of his bullies.

Sorry wouldn't excuse them from the truth. That they had left, even when their deepest, most personal obligation as friends should have been to stay, no matter how dangerous it might have been.

Closing his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose, Kurt did his best to let the soothing hum of the television distract him, more lulled by the slow, peaceful, oblivious pattern of Blaine's breathing.

Are you going to forgive them?

. . . No.


	57. Chapter 57

Blaine cracked an eye open when he felt a solid weight shimmy onto the bed beside him. It took him a moment to gather his bearings and realize that, yes, it was only mid-afternoon. Confused, he let his arms wrap around Kurt, the latter huddling closer like he needed Blaine's warmth to live, refusing to be coerced any farther away for a conversation. Wondering what was going on but too tired to ask, Blaine let his chin rest on top of his head and closed his good eye again, snoring softly again in seconds.

Unbeknownst to him, Kurt's fingers were trembling hard not with anxiety but excitement as he resisted the urge to shout about the NYADA letter that had finally arrived in the mail. Rachel had been going on and on all week about how if he was going to be chosen, now was the time. Swallowing heavily because he couldn't believe the moment had actually come, Kurt tightened his fingers in the fabric of Blaine's shirt, biting back a giggle of repressed delight. It felt surreal, impossible, that they had chosen him for NYADA.

He had had to read the letter over five times just to be sure, the first paragraph twice more just to be positive. None of its meaning had changed -- Congratulations still beamed at him from the top, the remainder of the letter as positive and optimistic as its predecessors. Kurt's heart had stopped when his dad had arrived at McKinley unannounced, Mr. Schue's face grim as he pulled him aside to speak with him. His stomach had coiled into a cold knot of fear as he followed his dad around the corner, questions bursting out of him without his permission.

"What happened? Is Blaine okay?"

"He's fine." And somehow the way his dad had said it, half the tension fell off Kurt's shoulders right there. He hadn't even realized how close he was to breaking down into a trembling mess on the floor until his calm, steady voice assured otherwise. It was too close to the last time Mr. Schue had pulled him from class -- too recent for the wound to heal deeper.

"Something came in the mail today that I thought we should share," his dad had gone on, holding out a thick envelope to him. Kurt's breath had hitched when he had seen the letterhead imprinted boldly on the corner.

"NYADA," he'd breathed.

It had taken six rooms and endless pacing before he had found himself in the choir room, his dad still in tow (albeit somewhat vexed by the entire process). Kurt couldn't help himself. It had been hard enough not tearing open the envelope in the middle of the hallway and just knowing what his fate was; it had been too important that he find the right place first, somehow needing that solidarity before he could know what his future might look like.

Drawing in a shallow breath, he had looked around the choir room and, by some unspoken consent of his consciousness, known that it was now. It was here. And so he had turned to face his dad, who had grumbled about the fact that they had already visited five other perfectly acceptable rooms, and held up the envelope with shaking fingers.

"Whatever happens, buddy," his dad had said, voice suddenly low and serious, "I'm right here for you, and I love you, and I don't care if some big, fancy college says otherwise."

Kurt had nodded slightly, swallowed, and slit the seal open. The letter had tumbled open almost before he had been ready to read it, sliding into his fingers as he had turned his back on his dad to read it. He had needed that moment to compose himself, come good or bad news, and in the end he was glad that he had taken it. He probably would have burst into tears if he had been facing his dad at the time, even though he still ended up tearing up in the end.

Because there was no doubt what the letter said, what it meant.

He had been accepted into the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts. Kurt Hummel, residential freak at McKinley High School, had made it into one of the most prestigious performing arts schools in the country.

His dad's arms around him had been the only thing keeping him upright, swinging him around and roaring with pride, heedless of the other students in the hall probably wondering why they were both laughing and crying. Kurt could barely speak, he was so overwhelmed, just stammering out the news while he still retained coherency and letting his dad take over once the realization had sunk in.

I made it, he realized, resting his ear against Blaine's chest now, the steady thump-thump of his heart inexplicably calming. I actually made it into NYADA.

Disbelieving and euphoric at once, Kurt languished in the fact that he had actually been accepted into his top choice college. It was more than could be said of one Rachel Berry. Kurt winced slightly as he recalled the way she had looked at him, half-proud and supportive and happy for him, half-devastated. The pain lingering behind her gaze hadn't made sense until she had revealed -- in an uncharacteristically thin voice -- that she had not received any word from them. Kurt's heart had sunk like a stone at the news; he had just automatically assumed that if he had gotten in, she had, too.

When her face had crumpled and the first sob had broken out, Kurt didn't even need to think. Rachel had always been one for dramatic expressions of emotions, but sobbing in the middle of a crowded hallway didn't usually count. She had been too upset to withhold it and, without Finn around to comfort her, Kurt took his place. Besides, once upon a time they had been practically twins. Maybe it was Blaine's influence on his life, or maybe it was simply the fact that their aspirations to stardom no longer intertwined as fiercely; either way, they had drifted somewhat, only to see how alike they were in such moments. He was perhaps the only person alive that understood her exact frustration: being a nobody in small-town Ohio that desperately wanted to attend a big-name school in New York, only to realize that there were hundreds -- no, thousands -- of other applicants of higher breed and caliber.

It still amazed Kurt that he had actually done it. That his application -- seemingly woefully thin compared to the novellas that both Gavroche and Harmony had shown him so long ago during their NYADA invitations -- had been sufficient to capture and maintain the school board's attention stunned him. His smile returned full force and he buried his face in Blaine's shoulder to resist laughing aloud at the thought of their faces if they ever saw that Kurt Hummel had actually made it into NYADA.

Blaine stirred underneath him at the sudden movement, his good eye blinking open slowly. Kurt pulled back a little so he could frown at him in familiar confusion before relaxing again as he recognized him. He looked around the room and frowned slightly at the bright light still pouring in from underneath the curtains over the window. "Time'sit?"

Kurt rolled over and looked at the clock on his night stand, answering, "Four-fifteen," before flopping back down, beaming at him. "Guess what?"

"What?" Blaine let his arm curl back over Kurt's waist, Kurt smiling as he leaned up to peck him lightly on the nose.

"I," he said slowly, pulling away and meeting Blaine's gaze, "got accepted to NYADA."

Blaine blinked at him and for one absurd moment Kurt wondered if he had actually forgotten what NYADA was. Then he let out a yelp of surprise, scrambling forward to hug him tightly and babbling.

"You -- are you -- what -- seriously? That's amazing! I'm so proud of you!"

"My dad brought the letter to school," Kurt rambled on, unable to help himself as he locked his own arms around Blaine's back. "I thought -- god, at first I thought something had happened to you--"

"I'm fine," Blaine assured at once, pulling away and looking at Kurt seriously, letting his gaze skim over him as though he feared Kurt wasn't telling him the entire truth.

Kurt rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. "I know. And then my dad gave me the letter and I . . . I got in!" He laughed, unable to help himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Blaine beamed at him, his grin broad and sincere, before leaning forward and gently brushing a kiss against Kurt's lips. As much as he wanted to, Kurt didn't grab the back of his neck and pull him into a deeper one; he knew from the last time they had tried that if even their noses bumped the wrong way Blaine would pull back with a hiss of pain, his right eye even more sensitive now that the surgery was over. It had been two days but Kurt knew that it would take longer to heal, another week before he could consider removing the eyepatch.

Still, he relished the brief contact, smiling when Blaine pulled back.

"I . . . wow. That's so . . . wow."

"It's very wow," Kurt agreed, grinning even when Blaine huffed and swatted at his shoulder in retaliation.

"Hush, you."

"I just can't believe it's happening," Kurt said, "I mean, even Rachel hasn't gotten her letter yet and -- oh. Yeah."

"Ouch," Blaine agreed, wincing sympathetically. "Is there a chance it could be late or . . . ?"

"There is," Kurt offered, shrugging slightly. He knew there was always the possibility that her letter could arrive a day or two later, but beyond that, he didn't know what the likelihood was. "If it takes more than a few days, though. . . ." He trailed off meaningfully. Blaine nodded in understanding.

"So be ready for the fall-out?"

"She already broke down in the hallway today," Kurt said quietly, some of his former ecstasy fading away at the memory. "I don't think I've seen her cry that hard in public in years. And it wasn't even for a performance."

Blaine whistled low, scooting upright until he was in a half-seated position, his back propped against a stack of pillows. "Where are you going?" Kurt asked, sitting up and frowning after him as he shuffled off the bed.

"I'm going to freshen up, and then we are going to go celebrate. Because as much as I love Rachel, I don't want her to bring you down, either."

"Blaine, it's--"

Blaine sat on the edge of the bed beside him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Kurt. This is your time to celebrate. Take advantage of it, okay?"

Kurt sighed, shaking his head in general disbelief before allowing a small smile to cross his face. "Sure you're up to it?"

Blaine paused, nodded, then added, "No shopping trips."

Kurt pouted. "Seriously?"

Blaine laughed, brushing his thumb over Kurt's lower lip before stepping back. "Not today," he said, sauntering out of the room.

Kurt huffed in mock-dissatisfaction at his back, smiling as he bounced out of the bed towards his vanity. He knew in some rational corner of his mind that he should be insisting on postponing any sort of celebration until well after Blaine was healed, but . . . well, it wasn't like he was an invalid. And he probably wanted to get out of the house as much as Kurt wanted to go on a casual night out with him.

Applying all the usual skin care creams to his face, feeling woefully neglectful as he did so, Kurt couldn't help but smile to himself as he thought about it all.

* * *

"I thought I was supposed to tell him," Burt said, sounding somewhat wounded as Kurt and Blaine stepped through the front doorway two hours later. Blaine laughed at the affronted look on his face as Burt turned to his son, Kurt shrugging sheepishly in response, the grin still affixed to his face.

"You were," he conceded, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs.

"I didn't realize that was an issue," Blaine put in lightly, draping his arms across the back of Kurt's chair. "Sorry."

"Not your fault, kid," Burt said, shaking his head and rubbing his hands over a clean hand towel. "How're you feeling? That eyepatch still good?"

Blaine sobered a little, shrugging slightly as he pulled back from Kurt's chair. "Good enough for a few more hours, at least," he said, prodding around the edges of it. It was still more tender than he would have liked but he knew that couldn't be helped. The fact that there hadn't been any complications regarding the eye surgery itself had been relieving enough. "How was the shop?" he added, mostly to change the subject.

Burt side-eyed him but didn't say anything more about it. "Shop's good," he said, shuffling through a stack of newspaper left on the counter. "I just hired Finn on as an extra hand."

"You hired Finn?" Kurt asked, disbelieving.

"Mmmhmm. Somebody's gotta take over the shop someday. Why not him?"

Blaine deliberately shifted to one side so he could see Kurt's face better, noting the hint of pain that briefly crossed it before stoicism replaced it. "I don't know," he said loftily. "Maybe one of your other guys?"

"Finn's actually pretty good at the shop," Burt protested, setting the papers down and rifling through the cabinets instead. "He gets cars, you know?"

"Mmmhmm," Kurt echoed.

"Look, kid," Burt said, turning to face him. Blaine was tempted to walk out of the room, find something to do in the living room, but Burt started speaking before he could. "I need somebody I can really trust around the shop, and most of the other guys have other obligations. I would have asked you but you want to go to New York."

Kurt was silent for several long moments. At last, he said quietly, "I know. I just. . . ."

Blaine eased back just as Burt walked over and wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders in a reassuring hug. He still heard their next words from the living room. "You can do whatever you want, kid, but if you wanna go to New York, it's open to you," Burt said fiercely. "I promise you, whatever you choose, it'll work out. Promise."

A pause, then: "Thanks, Dad."

"'Welcome, kid."

* * *

"Hey, Mom."

"Blaine?" He could almost see her gaping in surprise. "Blaine, what--?"

"Don't worry, Mom," Blaine said, leaning back against the headboard and smiling sourly to himself, "nothing's wrong. Just calling to check in."

"Oh." A long pause, then a relieved sigh. "I was worried about you."

"Why didn't you call?" Blaine asked, genuine curiosity seeping into his voice.

He could almost hear her shrug. "You seemed to be doing okay on your own. Do you want me to call more?" Her voice acquired an eager, almost frantic tone. "I could, I just didn't know if you--"

Blaine dragged in a deep, silent breath. "Mom, calm down. You don't have to call more."

"Do you want me to call more?"

There was no mistaking the deliberate word choice. Blaine swallowed.

"No. It's okay. I'll be fine."

Another pause. "Okay," she said, sounding a little dejected but also relieved. Blaine's heart clenched. "So how are things going?"

"Pretty good. Kurt got his acceptance letter from NYADA," he added preemptively, smiling to himself as he said it. He just wanted to tell everyone, even though he knew that Kurt was plenty happy keeping it a secret until he knew more about other colleges as well. You made it into NYADA, Kurt, he had insisted, wishing that he could somehow impress even more firmly in Kurt's mind how amazing that was. He was glad he had taken the opportunity to take him out for some much-needed leisure time. Nothing too strenuous -- Blaine was still adjusting to having only one eye temporarily useful --but enough to let them both relax a little more.

He could hear his mother let out a sharp breath in surprise. "NYADA? The one in New York?"

"You know it?" Blaine asked, genuinely surprised.

"Of course I do," she said, sounding almost scandalized. "What, you didn't think that I didn't do some of my own research after you said you wanted to go to New York for college, did you?"

Blaine laughed despite the sudden tightening in his throat. "Wait, you actually did college research?"

She hesitated. "Was I not supposed to?"

Blaine closed his good eye, shaking his head even though she couldn't see it. "No, no, I'm just kind of . . . surprised."

A pause. "Oh. Well. I didn't want to force anything on you, but . . . well, you've already applied now, haven't you?"

"I have," Blaine agreed. He had never even considered discussing it with his parents; after his dad sat him down four years ago stating what they would be willing to pay for and what he expected Blaine to do, they had left him to his own devices. It had never occurred to him that maybe they had enough interest in it to put in more input than 'Here's your monthly check.'

"Well, that's terrific for Kurt," his mother said, breaking the silence. Blaine couldn't help but smile a little. "He should be very proud."

"He is," Blaine assured, even if he had no idea how Kurt felt under the surface of it all. Glad, yes, relieved, absolutely. Committed? Blaine wasn't so sure.

"Has he heard from anywhere else yet?"

"No. But we should start hearing back from some places soon."

Another long pause. "You'll tell us when you get in, won't you?"

"Of course," his mouth said without his permission. "But I didn't apply to NYADA," he added hurriedly.

Another pause. "Just keep us updated, okay?"

"All right," Blaine agreed. "I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Bye, sweetie."

"Bye, Mom."

* * *

The eyepatch finally came off a week later.

Blaine couldn't tell if he was more relieved or Kurt was. An invisible tension that had been suspended between them seemed to have finally broken with its removal. With the last tangible reminder of Blaine's injury gone -- albeit the redness around his eye was still there, not quite as prominent as before but still not the same shade as the rest of his skin -- it was like the incident could finally be put behind them. Blaine felt more like himself, relishing the fact that he could see from both eyes, full vision.

Sitting in the Lima Bean, just savoring the fact that everything seemed to be working in their favor in -- Kurt had gotten into NYADA, Blaine had his eyepatch off, and Finn seemed to be doing well in the car shop -- Blaine smiled across the table at Kurt. He was diligently working over the setlist Rachel had finally put together for their nationals' competition. It had taken her weeks to narrow down her selection (Blaine didn't even want to know how many songs were on the original list) and days arguing with various glee clubbers to accept that the songs couldn't all revolve around the fact that they fit her vocal range.

Sugar Motta had already given a spirited argument in favor of them all dancing around her as she sang lead, claiming that her awesomeness would be more than enough to keep the group afloat. It had even taken some arguing just to get her to let Kurt see it. Blaine knew that part of it was the fact that Kurt would probably be the most critical about it (besides Santana, naturally) as well as the one to offer the most constructive criticism.

Rachel liked Kurt's input. Blaine had discovered that after spending months around the two of them -- over the summer more than in the school year, but still present, nonetheless. As much as she seemed to aggravate him at times, he still sought her out for a third opinion (Blaine was second) and used her as a sound board for most of his plans. Seeing him with Rachel's setlist before any of the other glee clubbers had a chance was only natural.

"So, how's it looking?" Blaine asked after a sufficient amount of time had passed without anything more than the occasional scritch of Kurt's pen against the paper.

"So far, it seems pretty good," Kurt admitted. "Although I'm certain we only have a ten-minute time slot for the preliminary rounds, so . . ." He crossed something out decisively.

"What about the advanced rounds?" Blaine asked.

Kurt shrugged, still staring at the page, brow creased with a thoughtful frown. "Twelve minutes."

"Hmm," Blaine said. He took a sip of his coffee, sitting up a little more when Kurt set the paper down and took a long drag from his own. "So what's the verdict?"

"Tweaking will probably need to be made depending on who sings what," Kurt said, setting his coffee down. "But overall, it actually looks pretty good."

"This is Rachel Berry we're talking about," Blaine reminded. "I don't think she'd even hint at it unless she already thought it was outstanding."

Kurt shrugged. "Well, it's better than last year, that's for sure."

Blaine frowned. "What happened last year?" He hadn't heard the full details -- mostly he hadn't pushed for them, given the disappointment that being eliminated in the first round had brought -- even though Kurt had supplied lavish praise for New York in general. It had been refreshing, to hear him so optimistic and upbeat when Blaine knew he was probably very upset about the loss. It had been a tough blow for all of them, to have worked so hard to reach that point only to be shot down so quickly. Other than an unscripted kiss between Rachel and Finn on-stage, Blaine hadn't heard about why they had lost.

Kurt fidgeted uneasily in his seat, looking tempted to find a distraction rather than answer. "You don't have to tell me," Blaine said quietly, sensing that it wasn't an easy topic.

Kurt sighed, though, and answered. "We didn't exactly prepare our setlist very well," he admitted. Then, with a bark of laughter: "We didn't even have a setlist going into it. We just . . . wrote original songs while we were there and sang them."

"Oh." It made more sense, suddenly, why the New Directions -- a veritable tour de force by the end of junior year -- had fallen out. "Still. That's impressive."

Kurt shrugged again, looking down at the paper and smiling slightly. "Well, hopefully this year'll be even better."

Blaine reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm sure it will be."

Kurt beamed at him, the disquiet from last year's competition forgotten. "Either way, we still get to go to New York again."

Blaine grinned. "Can't wait."

"Me either," Kurt admitted with a laugh, already rambling on about hotel arrangements and placed they needed to stop for breakfast and dinner and all meals in between. Blaine just listened with a slight grin on his face, not even touching his coffee again until it was cold.

* * *

Time seemed to pass at an exponential rate in Lima, Ohio. One moment, it was firmly entrenched in winter; the next, spring had awakened. Flowers bloomed and news forecasters mourned the possibility of harvests being lost over the unseasonably warm weather. Blaine himself wasn't too terribly upset about the ordeal; he liked the spring, and its premature blooming meant that he didn't have to tote around extra winter gear all the time. Kurt positively glowed in the new weather. He took every opportunity to wear outfits of a higher, more sprightly caliber, emerging from his four-month fashion hibernation as a beacon of new and exotic styles. Blaine couldn't help but smile at him, regardless of how bizarre or trendy the outfits seemed.

"I would never be able to get away with that," he pointed out to one of Kurt's more ambitious collages.

Kurt sniffed in mock-disdain, fastening a loop on his shirt primly. "It's my spring montage," Kurt said, which seemed a fairly accurate description for the light, flowing designs.

Their oasis of peace and general well-being only increased as mid-February approached -- until Jeff and Nick decided to pay them a surprise visit at the Lima Bean, that was.

Blaine had stiffened as soon as he spotted the duo by the door, Kurt so enraptured in explaining one of the finer arguments he had had with Mercedes about Sam earlier that he didn't notice at first. It became painfully obvious what their intentions were as the two sidled into the shop, looking warily at the other customers as though they expected a full-scale reconnaissance to break out around them. Without their Warblers' uniforms, they couldn't help but look smaller, less stable somehow. Blaine half-wondered if he looked similarly with his own; parting with the blazer had been one of the hardest parts of losing Dalton Academy, for reasons that Blaine refused to share.

Nick finally met his gaze after a minute of searching, his eyes darting to the floor. Kurt finally stopped speaking long enough to notice that Blaine was no longer looking at him, turning around in his seat and staring at the two of them. Without a word, he looked back at Blaine, one eyebrow raised. Do you want to go?

Blaine shrugged, then shook his head infinitesimally, laying his satchel on the table and pulling out a notepad with old English notes on it, feigning busyness. No.

They had to have this conversation, and Blaine was almost relieved for the weeks it had taken for the moment to arise. He leaned back in his chair and said nothing as Jeff and Nick paused cautiously a few feet away, uncertain how to approach. Neither Blaine nor Kurt gave them any invitation or acknowledgment, Kurt merely sipping his coffee while Blaine pretended to be engrossed in his notes.

At last, softly: "We're really sorry."

Blaine let his gaze flick up to them and said nothing.

"We should never have let Sebastian do that," Nick continued in a low voice, picking up where Jeff left off.

Blaine laughed, unable to help himself. "What was your first clue?" he asked.

Nick winced, Jeff looking aside guiltily.

"Exactly."

"He was trying to blackmail us," Jeff said in a rush, his words tumbling over each other while Nick looked ready to bolt on the spot. "If we didn't go along with it, he was going to tell the dean. Barter's already on edge about all the issues we've had this year and--"

"No offense," Blaine broke in quietly, shuffling his papers with his hands, "but I don't want excuses." Then, even quieter still: "So if you don't mind, what's the real reason?"

A long, long pause. For a moment, Blaine half-thought they would leave without answering. He was almost convinced, in fact, that they really had no other reason before Nick spoke. "Do we have to talk about this here?" He sounded uncomfortable. Blaine frowned, then stood, only hesitating slightly as he realized what he was about to do. Put his trust naively in the Warblers again, when they outnumbered him.

I've never not trusted them before, Blaine realized. Not even on his worst days had he ever feared the Warblers. It was strange, having to re-think his entire impression of the Warblers. Of Nick and Jeff. The two most harmless people he had ever met, as far as physical violence went -- until the slushying incident.

Nick stared openly in surprise as he watched Blaine scoop up his papers back into his satchel. Kurt said nothing, his glare hot enough that Blaine was surprised the two Warblers hadn't burst into flames already. Jeff looked like he would rather be anywhere else, gratefully leading the moment Blaine gave a tiny nod. Nick followed, tossing a wary glance back at Blaine before hurrying so that he was beside Jeff. Blaine paused at Kurt's shoulder, giving it a single squeeze -- I know, I know, I know -- before following.

I know you're not happy with this.

I know I can't trust them anymore.

I know you'll understand why I have to do this.

* * *

Blaine watched as Nick and Jeff sank down onto one of the benches down the street, just far enough off the main street that few passerbys were likely to come. Hesitating just a moment, half-tempted to leave them and walk back, Blaine drew in a steeling breath and stepped forward instead. It was just Nick and Jeff, he reminded himself.

Nick and Jeff.

He stood in front of them, arms folded. "So what is the real reason?" he repeated, deciding that beating around the bush would only make things worse, in the end. It would only delay the inevitable bad news. Whether it changed Blaine's morphing opinion of them at all would be the real question.

Nick ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Blaine could tell from the weary slouch of his shoulders that it had been a long and hard week for him.

For one cold moment, Blaine was satisfied that he had had a rough time. It couldn't have been as bad as having a tampered slushy thrown in his face.

Then of course old Blaine took over, the one that had seen Nick at his best and brightest as well as the times in between and knew that he wasn't a bad person. He sighed as he realized just how much he wanted to believe it was true, regardless of the evidence to the contrary.

Nick's not a bad person, he told himself viciously. Neither is Jeff.

The growl of dissent -- they walked away when you were lying on the ground screaming -- wouldn't be silenced so easily.

"It was really stupid," Jeff said at last, his voice soft and pained. "We . . . god, we just got drunk on campus one time and . . . ." He shrugged helplessly.

"You got drunk," Blaine repeated incredulously, staring between them.

Nick rubbed at his forehead, looking more exhausted now than ever. "It was a tough week, Blaine. Cameron's brother had just dropped off some bottles at his place and the rest of the Warblers were going at it and . . . well, what was the harm? We weren't even on grounds but Sebastian found out and threatened to hand us all over to Barter if we didn't go along with it."

"So you would rather have slushied Kurt than be punished for something you deserved," Blaine said flatly, ignoring the twinge of hypocrisy that welled in his gut. You got drunk and you were never punished, his conscious reminded.

He ignored it. He had never agreed to slushy a friend to prevent the fact from being brought to the surface, either.

"He would have disbanded the Warblers," Nick insisted, aghast. "He would have thrown out any scholarships we had earned because of them."

Blaine stared between them, unrelenting.

"When we heard . . . Blaine, we had no idea that he had tampered with it," Jeff broke in heatedly. "He was just . . . it was more of a joke, just something to get back at Kurt and--"

"Do you honestly think that slushying could ever be just a joke for Kurt, or me, or anyone that's ever been taunted at McKinley?" Blaine interrupted fiercely. "It's not. And it never will be. Maybe you two have been lucky enough never to have been shoved into a locker or had a slushy thrown in your face, but it's not something you joke about."

"Sebastian was really angry at us for kicking him out," Nick said in a low voice, soft, defeated. "He wanted back in. We said no, and he said he would spill, and the compromise was to slushy Kurt and not tell Barter or let him back in."

"So you let him slushy me."

Silence. Both boys stared at the ground and Blaine felt laughter bubble up in his throat. He suppressed it savagely; he knew it would be bitter, unhelpful.

"I know Dalton's always been about being a team," he said at last, "but I never thought you two were actually this mean. And what would you have done if Sebastian had gone to Barter and told him anyway? What difference would it have made, then?" They looked at each other, Jeff opening his mouth as though to speak but Blaine didn't let him. "You have no idea how much that slushy burned. And yet you agreed to slushy Kurt."

"We thought he would be able to just shake it off," Jeff said, almost pleadingly. "We had no idea that--"

"That there were rocks in it?" Blaine finished. The two boys gaped at him, stunned, horrified. "The doctors don't even know what he put in that cup," he added, almost matter-of-factly, relishing the brutal surprise on their faces, the realization, the knowing of the true extent of their wrongness. "They suspect rock salt. I nearly lost an eye because of Sebastian's 'joke,' and neither of you did a thing to stop him."

"Blaine," Nick breathed, his voice so pained Blaine was almost tempted to accept that they were truly remorseful. But he couldn't. Now that it was crowding at the forefront of his mind, the awareness that they had left -- had left him lying on the ground screaming in pain -- when there was no other force stopping them, no words Sebastian could have used forcing them to stay, was too painful to back away from.

"Sebastian won't bother you anymore," he said, almost calmly, stunned at how even his voice when all his emotions skewed in different directions. "Barter's already gotten him on trial for juvie. You can regroup the Warblers and no one's the wiser." He shook his head grimly, looking between the two of them. We're not the same any more. None of us. "I honestly don't know what I expected from you anymore," he admitted softly. "But . . . I don't really want to see you anymore. And I don't think Kurt does, either."

He turned and walked back towards the Lima Bean, not even bothering to respond to the despondent, "Blaine," that trailed after him.

His throat was tight but he didn't turn back. He couldn't. Not after they had left him. Not after they had willingly sacrificed Kurt to Sebastian's vengeance, even if it didn't go as planned.

He walked back to the coffee shop, refusing to look back.


	58. Chapter 58

"Kurt, you look amazing."

"I do?" Kurt turned self-consciously in front of the mirror, staring at his jeans, scrutinizing. "I'm not underdressed, am I?"

"This is Sugar Motta we're talking about," Mercedes reminded, flopping down onto Rachel's bed heedless of her own outfit. The shirt and skirt were unlikely to be damaged by the action, however, an attractive shade of dark purple that suited Mercedes' figure and skin tone fabulously. Kurt almost envied the simplicity and ease with which she held herself in such casually beautiful outfits; sometimes he thought it would be much better if he wasn't so attached having the perfect outfit for the occasion as he did another half-loop in front of the mirror.

"Besides," Rachel said, emerging from her attached bathroom with her hair draped over one shoulder as she worked on putting it up in a ponytail, "Blaine is going to love you no matter what you're wearing." She plopped down on the bed in front of Mercedes, who reluctantly pushed herself upright to accept the hair tie, working it quickly and efficiently into her mass of hair.

"I just don't want to look like I didn't even try," Kurt said, examining his ass critically. "You know? I mean, I don't want to be the one that goes completely overboard and overdresses, but--"

"Kurt, hon, Sugar already showed me her outfit, and unless you're planning on wearing a fluffy pink boa around your neck all night, I think you're pretty safe," Mercedes interjected.

Kurt shuddered at the thought, half-curious and half-repulsed by the thought of what Sugar Motta had put together as an 'appropriate' Valentine's Day outfit.

Part of him was thrilled that he was able to celebrate the holiday with his best friend and boyfriend, while another part couldn't help being giddily nervous. Last year's near disasters had only been somewhat averted when they had been able to perform at Breadstix to a crowd of friends and friendly patrons. Their rendition of 'Silly Love Songs' and other cutesy-romance ballads had managed to turn around Kurt's evening, even if his smile waned whenever he reminded himself that Blaine was only smiling at him in a friendly way, not in an I want to be your boyfriend way.

It had hurt tremendously to realize that Blaine's crush had not been him, despite their months of casual flirting and hanging out. Kurt had been nothing but polite at first, treading carefully to avoid blowing up their entire friendship. He hadn't wanted to force Blaine into something he didn't want, and so he had been nothing if not excruciatingly careful for the first few weeks. Once it became clear that Blaine's casual affection was too infectious to pass up, Kurt had done his best to insinuate himself in Blaine's life at every opportunity. Whenever Karofsky's bullying escalated, he turned to Blaine for support and that extra bit of friendly affection in his day that he just needed.

His dad loved him and wasn't afraid to hug him or tell him that he was so proud of him, but it was different when Blaine touched his shoulder or held his hand over coffee or sat close enough beside him on one of Dalton's couches that Kurt could feel their thighs pressed against each other. He had been hyperaware of those moments, those brief touches that seemed to ignite in him a whole new ache for companionship. It was why he had been content to be Blaine's friend for so long; the thought of losing his friendship in pursuit of something more was too unbearable to entertain when it felt like Blaine was one of the only rational and compassionate people left in Kurt's life.

That had all changed, of course, when Blaine had asked him if it was 'too much' to sing to someone on Valentine's Day.

Kurt had felt a relief so profound that he'd feared he would choke on it. By the barest of threads, Kurt had managed to keep his delighted squeal inside as he breathlessly informed Blaine that serenading was perfectly acceptable to him.

Only, Blaine hadn't meant to sing to him, and the bottom had dropped out of Kurt's world as he realized that his best friend and secret crush had been secretly crushing on someone else.

That had been devastating. So heartbreaking, in fact, that Kurt had had to have a long and serious discussion with Rachel and Mercedes about the merits of attempting to pursue a relationship with Blaine at all.

"He's probably just confused, hun," Rachel had assured after hours of watching cheesy eighties' movies and eating pizza until his belly was healthily distended. "I'm sure he'll come around."

Which had been all fine and well when Blaine did finally acknowledge his budding feelings for Kurt until Blaine had kissed Rachel at a party.

Kurt had wanted to give up then. He had wanted to drop all of the emotional attachments he had formed with Blaine and find someone else, no matter what it took, because being around Blaine just hurt too much when it had seemed like he would never understand how much Kurt loved him. And he might have been able to, too, if it hadn't been for the way Blaine had acted for the rest of Rachel's party.

He sang a duet with her, yes, and flirted a little bit when she insisted on clinging to his neck, but as soon as she let him go he walked back over to Kurt and sat beside him. He smiled at him and asked him if he was enjoying the party and frowned when Kurt ignored him. He laughed whenever Kurt said something even remotely funny to someone else and tried to coax him to dance with him on Rachel's ridiculous little stage at one point. He even offered to stop singing along with the rest of the New Directions when they decided that group karaoke was the best because Kurt didn't seem happy, not at all, and Blaine didn't want to see him like that. He was silent for the drive home besides the occasional hummed note and anxious glance in Kurt's direction as Finn drove them home.

Even then, Kurt might have been able to give up hope on a relationship with Blaine. He had been sweet, yes, but Blaine was generally sweet and affectionate with everyone. It was one of the best things about him -- his compassion -- and also the worst, because it made it nearly impossible to know who he really cared for and who was 'just a friend.'

Blaine had only lost hold of his alcohol once they were safely upstairs, a mercy for Kurt who had had no ambition whatsoever to scrub vomit out of the carpet. He had locked himself in the bathroom before Kurt could ask him if he would be okay -- not that Kurt had had the slightest idea what he was supposed to do if the answer had been 'no' -- and not emerged until almost an hour had passed. By that time, Kurt had completed his nightly skin care routine and was considering sleeping arrangements as Blaine staggered out of the bathroom. He had looked a little more sober, Kurt recalled, as he paused on the threshold to Kurt's door, expression miserable.

Unable to help himself, Kurt had walked over to him, tugging him inside his room before his dad could notice anything amiss, and nearly staggered under Blaine's deadweight. "Woah," he'd said, patting Blaine's back as his feet sluggishly rearranged themselves to support his weight. "Easy, Blaine."

"I'm sorry," Blaine had sniffled, Kurt wincing at the thought of tears getting on his shirt but thankfully there were none as Blaine pulled back, dry-eyed, to look at him. "'M sorry, Kurt, I'm so, so, so, so. . . ." His voice had slurred softly even as he spoke, hands pawing at the air as he tried to decide whether to accept the supportive arm Kurt had wrapped around his waist or try and stand on his own. "Kurt, I--"

"Shh," Kurt had said, partially because he didn't have the heart to stand and listen to Blaine apologize for something he probably didn't even remember and partially because he was afraid of his dad waking up. "We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

Blaine had nodded, managed to be a fairly cooperative drunk as he fell on the floor when trying to seat himself on the edge of the bed and laughing softly at his own clumsiness. Kurt had sighed, bent down to unlace and tug off his shoes, before patting his hip to get him back on his feet. It had taken some maneuvering -- and a fair amount of convincing on Kurt's part as Blaine refused to accept, insisting that it was Kurt's and he couldn't make him sleep on the floor, on the couch, anywhere but his own bed -- but he had managed to get Blaine onto his bed without awakening his dad. Blaine had been only semi-conscious by that time, humming 'Don't You Want Me' under his breath and smiling adoringly up at Kurt as he draped the fur blanket over him.

"Shh," Kurt had said again, just wanting to be done with the evening as a whole as he put his hand gently on Blaine's shoulder. "Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

Whether Blaine actually heard the last part or not, Kurt would never know. He had ended up camped out on the floor beside his bed, too nervous to sleep on the same bed as Blaine, until roughly two-thirty, when Blaine had knocked a pillow off the bed that landed on Kurt's face, awakening him with a start. It had taken him longer than usual to put together what had happened, even longer to realize that crawling underneath the covers to his now amazingly warm bed was not what he had agreed to before, but he was asleep before he could have considered those points any longer and enveloped in dreams before he could have complained.

The next morning, Kurt had awoken to warmth and safety and calm, only to realize that, like the dream he had just had, it wasn't fully real. It had taken him several long moments to place why there were arms wrapped loosely around his torso, legs underneath his own and a chest rising and falling against his back with slow, steady breaths. Once he had pieced together the inevitable, he had blushed scarlet and nearly leaped out of the bed, Blaine's fingers twitching slightly as he ripped away from them before he whined and turned himself face-down onto one of the pillows, curling around it and shifting the blanket slightly over his head.

Not a moment too soon, either, as Kurt's dad had started calling up the stairs and asking him how to make shirred eggs. Kurt had frantically thrown himself at his vanity, nearly overturning the table as Blaine let out a soft snore beside him. Without even reading labels, Kurt had a cream picked up and was rubbing it onto his face -- upon reflection, he supposed that he was simply grateful it was the actual facial cream he normally used and not hand cream or worse -- just as his dad nudged the door open.

"I'll be down in a sec--" had already been on his lips just as Blaine lifted himself with a heavy sigh and squinted around the room.

Damn it.

"Oh. My bad." And then Kurt's dad had left and Kurt had let out a relieved sigh because he hadn't exploded and it wasn't exactly the best way to introduce Blaine as his future boyfriend but it was the way it had happened and that was all that mattered.

Kurt had been too nervous to confront his dad immediately, so he had delayed the inevitable by taking a longer-than-usual shower (after confirming that Blaine had passed out again; there was no way he was going to leave him wandering around the house to face Kurt's dad's wrath alone) and spending as much time on his skin care routine as he possibly could before being unable to ignore his growling stomach.

Somehow, Blaine and he had survived the messy confrontations afterwards about sexuality and questioning and whether or not either of them had any place to tell the other who they could and could not like (the answer to which was a resounding no). It had taken long conversations over cold coffee and dozens of heartfelt apologies before the rift that had been torn between them mended. And even after the embarassing fiasco with his dad giving him the sex talk and Blaine saying he had gas pain sexy faces, Kurt had been relieved to get it out of the way, talk it out, because it meant that once he and Blainehad settled into a relationship they didn't jump straight to sex.

Still hadn't, in fact, Kurt thought, rubbing his knuckles in a familiarly anxious way. Part of him wanted to see that side of Blaine, the part that involved not only emotional closeness but also physical intimacy. Horror stories from the New Directions had largely turned him off to the idea of sex in high school, even if he knew that he would never have to worry about an unwanted pregnancy. He snorted softly in spite of himself at the thought, nearly bursting into a hysterical bout of giggles at the thought of trying to explain to his dad that he was pregnant. It wasn't the threat of pregnancy that restrained him from expressing his sexual desires more actively, however.

It was the thought of doing what so many of his friends had done and walking away from it without feeling like he had connected with another person. Without feeling like he had given a part of himself to someone else and received a part of them to fill the gap. Without feeling loved and wanted rather than used and dismissed. Too many of the girls he knew had already disillusioned themselves with sex, even if it was only in the private eye. Kurt ached for the hardships that Quinn had gone through and loathed the casually inferior way that both Brittany and Santana referred to sex (especially considering that they were clearly interested more in each other than any of the guys they had sex with). Even though his dad's talk had made him blush and cringe inwardly more than once, it had left a powerful impression on him, a need to find someone that would make him feel not only like sex was enjoyable but also that it was something meaningful. Loving.

You've found him. So why haven't you done it yet? a small voice whispered.

His ears flushed pink even as he resolutely kept his face expressionless, not wanting to tip Mercedes and Rachel off to what he was thinking. (They were laughing over some joke or another in the background.) Part of him was afraid about what it would be like and how nervous he would be and whether he would panic and bow out before they got any further than their usual make-outs. Mostly he just didn't know how to ask Blaine. To know himself if he was ready for it, even if he did muster the courage to ask. Because saying and doingwere two very different things, and Kurt knew that, in the end, there was only one way to find out: try.

Just ask him, the same voice said, hopeful, encouraging. The worst he'll say is no.

But Kurt still cringed a little at the thought because he knew, no matter how reasonable and true Blaine's explanations were, it would hurt if he said no once he had decided yes.

You'll never know unless you try.

Blinking at the mirror, Kurt brought himself back to the present. Rachel and Mercedes were still exchanging playful banter in the background, seemingly oblivious to his inner musings. Looking over himself one last time, realizing that he was about to attend his first Valentine's Day party with his boyfriend, Kurt couldn't help the wide smile that crossed his lips in response.

Worry about sex later. Enjoy right now.

It had never been easy before he had Blaine in his life. Having Blaine fully in his life as his boyfriend had been both easier and more challenging than he could have ever expected.

Challenging because of Blaine's obliviousness and their miscommunications and their shortcomings. Easy because of how natural it was for Kurt to fall in love with Blaine, and for Blaine to reciprocate.

And, Kurt reminded himself as he gave one final assessing spin in front of the mirror, Blaine had been the one to initiate many milestones from then on in their relationship. He had been the one to first kiss Kurt (although Kurt had more than made up for that in the future; not that he would ever admit it to Rachel, Mercedes, or anyone else), tell him he loved him, and even take him on a formal date (just for dinner and coffee, nothing new for them, but still tremendously new as boyfriends). He had introduced him to countless musical artists and other passions that he had. He had invited Kurt over to his house even before he had stayed overnight at Kurt's on more than an infrequent basis.

He wasn't perfect. But he was more than enough for Kurt.

"Are you ladies ready yet or do I have to call Finn and Marcus and tell them we're not leaving this room?" Kurt asked aloud, his voice bright and teasing.

"You wouldn't call Blaine?" Mercedes teased, sitting up with one last tug to Rachel's hair to straighten out the bun she had made on the top of her head.

"No," Kurt said gravely, side-eying his boots and smiling slightly at them. "He would come looking on his own, trust me, and then I could finally coerce him into letting me give him a facial."

"Now I'm tempted not to leave just so we can," Rachel said, sitting back on her heels and eying the door speculatively. "How much longer until our dinner reservations?"

"Girls, Kurt, I do believe that your dinner reservations are set for six thirty, which is in approximately twenty minutes," Hiram informed, stepping into the room and looking over them both.

"Dad," Rachel said, fond exasperation plain in her tone as she gestured around her room. "Can't you see we're busy?"

"I see," Hiram said. Then, calling over his shoulder: "Leroy! She's still busy!"

"Well, if you don't convince her to hurry, m'dear, my arms are going to fall off!"

"What's Papa waiting for?" Rachel asked, her brow furrowed suspiciously as she bounced to her feet, hurrying to the stairs and squealing. "Finn!" she shrieked, vaulting down the steps in a burst of gleeful energy. Kurt and Mercedes exchanged a look -- This is not going to end well -- as there was a relieved if exasperated sigh from Leroy.

"Thank goodness," Kurt heard him say, as Rachel and Finn started talking hurriedly at the bottom of the steps.

"You two would be doing my well-meaning if misguided partner a sincere favor if you wrapped things up quickly here, yes?" Hiram said, eying the room before smiling slightly at them both. "He has a bit of an obsession with documenting proof of our daughter's friends for future reference."

"I see," Kurt said, bracing himself for whatever lay beyond the door as he stepped gingerly around the clothes strewn over the floor and followed Hiram and Mercedes down the stairs. Finn and Rachel were chatting animatedly near one of the couches while Leroy excitedly snapped picture after picture of them. To Kurt's mild disappointment, there was no sign of Blaine, although his disheartenment was lightened as he realized that Marcus had not shown up, either. Their original plan was to meet at the Breadstix, after all, so it was only natural that they wouldn't be there. Still, the fact that Finn had shown up and was now beaming at Rachel and listening to her talk made Kurt ache for Blaine. He had barely had the chance to see him all day -- besides sleepy kisses in the morning before Kurt had hurried off to meet Tina, Mike, Artie, and Brittany for breakfast and promptly spent the rest of the day being playfully kidnapped by various members of the New Directions.

By the time Puck had insisted he needed Kurt's help with his pre-calculus work, Kurt had firmly deduced that they were doing it on purpose. Even when he had successfully avoided Jacob Ben Israel's unplanned interview attack before lunch, he had been disappointed to find the cafeteria filled with a crowd of students that seemed to include everyone but Blaine.

The rest of the day had passed in a similar fashion, Kurt's frustration and anxiety growing until Blaine had finally showed up at his locker before the final bell. His message had been brief, just to meet him at the Breadstix at six-thirty (with Mercedes and Rachel and their respective dates) and then Sugar's party that night (something they had already agreed upon days ago after weighing the merits and downsides to it). Kurt had huffed and Blaine, without any seeming regard for the potential disapproving eyes around him, had wrapped his arms around Kurt in a firm hug, pressing a kiss to his neck where only Kurt could have seen or felt and whispering, "I love you," before backing off, still grinning, and hurrying to get to his own locker.

From that moment on, Kurt hadn't questioned the pointed silence he had been receiving from Blaine even while he silently ached watching Finn and Rachel take couples' pictures together. Leroy hurriedly beckoned Kurt and Mercedes over and, without further adieu, Kurt found himself smiling back at Rachel's dad as he snapped photos of the group of them.

"Now," he said seriously once he put his camera down and planted both hands on his hips, the firmness in his tone somewhat diminished by the gesture, "I want you all to have a very good time and enjoy the party. Be back before sunrise and we'll call it a fair deal."

Mercedes laughed and assured that she would make sure the 'lovebirds' made it home on time while the lovebirds-in-question made heart-eyes at each other and beamed.

The task of driving them to Breadstix fell to Mercedes as she and Kurt occupied the front seat of his Navigator. Normally he would have insisted on driving but, as it gave him more freedom to mess with the soundtracks they were listening to, he accepted the passenger's seat and flitted happily between Broadway classics and cheesy romantic music that made Mercedes laugh while Finn and Rachel talked and giggled in the background.

The drive seemed to take longer than usual and Kurt was barely suppressing his anxiety to just find Blaine and not let him go this time when Mercedes pulled into a parking space. He was out of the door almost before he had his seatbelt off, hurriedly remedying the problem before either Mercedes, Rachel, or Finn could notice.

Mercedes shot him an amused look as he walked ahead, seeming content to hang back with Finn and Rachel until Kurt realized that it was deliberately done. His steps slowed involuntarily at the thought, wondering what was ahead of him -- and fearing that there was no Blaine waiting inside.

I don't want to wait any longer, he thought, gingerly stepping through the doors and peering over his shoulder where Mercedes, Finn, and Rachel were now noticeably hanging back. Please, no more surprises, just . . . let me have my boyfriend.

And Blaine was there, right there, with a box of chocolates tucked under one arm and a grin on his face and a small bouquet of red roses in his hands. His suit was immaculate, formal enough that Kurt felt comfortable standing next to him in his own lavish attire while still toned down enough by its festive shade of red that he didn't feel intimidated or underdressed.

"Hello," he breathed, beaming, as Kurt stepped forward and hugged him once, hard. "I missed you, too," he laughed, carefully balancing the chocolates and flowers so they weren't crushed. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"God, I missed you," Kurt said, meaning it and not caring about the rest as Mercedes and Finn and Rachel joined them, meeting Marcus at the table as they all wedged into the booth. Kurt found himself comfortably sandwiched between Rachel and Blaine, already cooing over the flowers with her while simultaneously picking at the chocolate and admiring Blaine's taste.

"Ooh, I want some," Mercedes said, playfully making grabby hands while Kurt pretended to hoard the chocolates, Blaine wrapping his arm around Kurt's waist and smiling at him, not even bothering with menus or drinks or any of that. He ordered water and the same meal as Kurt, not looking at the waiter as his fingers traced light, soothing patterns on the back of Kurt's hand. The lively conversation between Marcus and Mercedes drifted over Kurt as he focused on Blaine's presence beside him, instead, aware of every soft breath and twitch as he readjusted his hands or scooted closer to get more comfortable.

By the time they had made their way through three baskets of breadsticks and enough chicken parmesan, fettucini, and caesar salads to last a month, Kurt was feeling pleasantly heavy and almost sleepy, picking off chocolates and taking small bites, artfully tasting the different varieties. "Mmmm," he would say after a particularly delightful one, yelping when Blaine reached forward and plucked the rest of the chocolate from his fingers and popping it in his own mouth, smiling and closing his eyes. Kurt couldn't be mad at him, though, so he just snorted softly instead, watching as Finn and Rachel argued playfully over the last breadstick. Marcus huffed and reached over to casually pluck it from Rachel's fingers, scarfing it down without a word. There was a beat of silence before they started laughing, all of them, and it was perfect.

Grateful that Sugar's party didn't start until nine o'clock, Kurt sipped from his water and listened rather than contributed to the conversation around him, slowly leaning back against Blaine as the minutes slipped past. He could soon feel as well as hear the vibrations from Blaine's chest whenever he spoke, adding in lofty remarks here and there that caused Rachel to elbow Kurt in the side playfully and tell him how rude his boyfriend was. Blaine would laugh and the sound would make up for the momentary discomfort, causing Kurt to just smile at him and not bother analyzing any of the rest.

He was in love, and that was all that mattered. They had had mistakes and difficulties and tribulations along the way, but in the end, this is what they were, and Kurt was happy.

All too soon, it seemed, they were moving by some unspoken command, all piling into Kurt's Navigator. Kurt found himself once more wedged between Rachel and Blaine. This time, though, he laughingly sang along with them as Mercedes played different songs from Kurt's iPod dock. Blaine was quiet then, listening rather than singing along, occasionally brushing his fingers, whisper-light, over Kurt's arm or hand. It made his skin tingle, the slight touches that were barely enough to even be felt even as they made the hairs on his arms prickle. He almost didn't want to leave the car when Mercedes finally pulled into the designated lot, too content with everything that was around him.

The Sugar Shack proved to be exactly as wild and overdone as Kurt had expected. There was even an ice sculpture of two swans with their necks bent inward, forming a heart in the crook of their bodies. Kurt eyed the rest of the decorations in slow consideration, biting his lip to resist the urge to snort at some of the more absurd details. Sugar, however, kept him from analyzing in too much detail as she squealed and leaped at Blaine, wrapping her arms around his neck eagerly. "You're here!" she squealed, quickly disengaging herself to give Kurt a similarly enthusiastic hug, leaving him slightly breathless as she forcefully hugged the air out of him. "Oooh, I'm sooo glad you guys could make it!" she beamed.

"We're happy to be here," Blaine said with a smile that would have melted a stronger girl's heart. Sugar nearly swooned, leaning against Marcus for support as he stared at her warily, gingerly pushing her aside with one hand. She swayed on her feet, momentarily wrong-footed, before hopping off to squeal over couples. Kurt watched her disappear with a bemused smile on his face, shaking his head even as Blaine pulled him towards one of the arrangements near the far end of the room.

Kurt let Blaine lead him, looking around at the sea of faces, searching for familiar ones. He tensed briefly at the sight of so many other people, reflexively expecting glares. Instead, they seemed enraptured with each other, only sparing him brief glances before returning to their own conversations or dancing. Kurt stared at them, unable to believe that they would just -- ignore him and Blaine.

It was refreshing. Especially when Blaine pulled him into a light hug and no one cleared their throat or told them to stop being so obvious in public.

Pretending was hard. Pretending was stressful. Pretending wasn't something he wanted to do on Valentine's Day, Kurt reflected, resting his head on Blaine's shoulders and holding him close, feeling the warmth underneath his fingers and wondering what it would be like without the barrier of clothes. Rather than the flush and stammering that he expected such thoughts to bring about, he only felt curiosity, a sense of confidence and relaxation settling over him as he realized that he could handle this. He wasn't the same blushing teenager that had once almost panicked at the thought of talking about sex with Blaine.

He could do this. Not here, not now, but . . . soon.

"What are you thinking about?" Blaine whispered, nosing his neck lightly.

"That I love you," Kurt said, smiling as he tilted his head back. "But we're in public," he added, pulling back before Blaine could do more than press a few light kisses to his throat. "Come on. I have an idea." He tugged Blaine's hands playfully, making his way slowly back to the main area of the room, the music thrumming through him, hips swaying slightly without conscious command. Blaine followed without needing instruction or even the light touch on his arm, Kurt using the grip as an excuse not to let go. After spending nearly the entire day separated . . . well, it was no secret that he didn't want to waste another moment apart.

"Hey, Kurt!" Tina said, beaming at him. Kurt beamed back, Blaine and Mike grinning at each other before reaching around for one-armed hugs as Tina threw her arms around Kurt. "How are you?" she asked, speaking over the music.

"I'm good!" he chirped. "What's Sugar up to?" he added, watching as the shorter girl made her way onto the stage.

Tina laughed, shrugged, and shook her head. "No idea!"

"Hey, everyone!" Sugar said, latching onto one of the microphones and swaying precariously from her perch. "Happy Valentine's Day!" There were hoots and cheers from around the room, the lights already dimmed enough that it made it nearly impossible to distinguish who was making them. "Now that everyone's here, it's time for your favorite . . . karoake! Any volunteers?" she added, scanning the crowd for a mere millisecond before alighting on Kurt and Blaine with a giggle and grin. "Anybody?"

"Let's just get it over with," Blaine whispered, leaning in close enough that Kurt could feel his breath on his ear, tilting his head unconsciously in his direction before registering what he had said, eyelids fluttering as he pulled himself back to the present.

"Okay," he whispered back.

Blaine nodded to signal his assent and Sugar all but leaped off the stage in her excitement, the first boisterous notes of Love Shack wafting through the air as she did so. Blaine didn't miss a beat as he stepped back from Kurt and it was then that Kurt knew that it was planned, a sudden laugh escaping him as Blaine produced a microphone from around one of the partitions and falling seamlessly into the first verse.

You want it? He asked wordlessly, angling the mic towards Kurt. He grinned as he noticed a microphone positioned strategically a few feet away, shaking his head as he shimmed towards it. Blaine offered it again, misinterpreting his gesture as polite refusal, before Kurt pulled the extra mic to his lips and belted out the next line.

Blaine's smile was thrilled and encouraging and made it all worth it. It was silly and Kurt only held himself together by a thread, barely managing not to collapse into laughter at his and Blaine's antics, letting himself surrender to the music to prevent himself from giggling at inopportune moments. Blaine draped his arms around his shoulders at some point, and Kurt was fairly sure he shook his ass at him playfully at least twice, but in the end, Sugar tipped some string that let a mass of balloons fall down, the group cheering as balloons cascaded down. Kurt bopped them playfully out of the way, still managing to finish strong as the crowd broke into cheers, another set of New Directions quickly taking over.

"You know," Kurt said breathlessly, smiling broadly and unable to help himself, "this is a lot better than I thought it would be."

Blaine just smiled back and wrapped his arms around his waist. "I'm glad."

* * *

"Blaine?"

"Mm?" Blaine rolled over and looked at Kurt, blinking sleepily at him until he realized that Kurt was still wide awake. The night had been perfect, Kurt had seemed thrilled, but now he was awake and it was well after midnight and something had to be on his mind. "What's up?" he added, forcing himself to sit up a little straighter before Kurt grabbed his arms to keep him from getting up, shaking his head slightly. Blaine sank back against the mattress, a curious frown marring his brow as he did so. "Kurt?"

"Why don't we ever . . . you know?" Kurt's fingers trailed over Blaine's arm, then his side, at last gingerly resting against his hip. Blaine tilted his head slightly, not understanding what Kurt was trying to say, before Kurt took a deep breath and dipped his thumb underneath the waistband of Blaine's jeans. Oh. Oh.

"Um. Well." Blaine wished that he could sit up, suddenly aching to make this formal and polite and detached because he was suddenly hyperaware of Kurt's thumb and the rest of his body less than a foot away and it was . . . distracting was an understatement. "I thought this was what we wanted?" he tried, placing his hand on Kurt's chest lightly, demonstratively. He had meant to distance himself a little from the reality Kurt had propositioned; instead, the increased warmth beneath his fingers seemed only to increase his awareness. His own breathing staggered the slightest bit as Kurt drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected contact. It was still strange, to be shirtless together like this, but to just reach out and be able to feel Kurt underneath was even more strange. Wonderful, actually, but Blaine figured it was still a little too soon to want to just rest his head against Kurt's heart with three layers of shirts between them.

He swallowed slightly. Had figured. That probably was just as debatable as hands' visas at this point.

"We don't have to talk about this tonight," Kurt said suddenly, sensing his hesitation and retreating, pulled his hand away as though stung. Blaine blinked, sliding his hand so he could hold Kurt's shoulder instead, a hold that let him breathe a little more deeply and actually think.

"It's fine," he said, meaning it. Kurt was silent, waiting. It was hard to see his face completely in the darkness, but Blaine's eyes had adjusted and he could make out his features easily, the creases around his eyes and mouth visible. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed him, wanting to ease the tension he had involuntarily created. Kurt stiffened for a moment before relaxing, his own hand coming back to rest against the back of Blaine's neck.

"I like this," Blaine murmured against him, pulling back only enough to speak, Kurt's breath puffing out over his lips. "But . . . if you want . . . if you're comfortable with it . . . we could try more."

"Are you comfortable with it?" Kurt retorted lightly, the slight, relieved smile playing across his features visibly.

Blaine smiled in response. "We don't have to do everything all at once," he said, trailing his fingers curiously over Kurt's arm, "but yeah, I . . . I want to. With you." He blushed, grateful that the darkness concealed it. Kurt pecked his nose.

"Okay," he breathed, kissing Blaine's mouth once in gratitude before leaning down to kiss his throat.

* * *

"Hey, Kurt, do you know when Burt's supposed to be opening up the shop -- oh, crap, dudes, you're still in bed, oh--"

"Knocking," Kurt said, very clearly, "is a beautiful thing, Finn."

"I -- okay, I'm leaving now, bye." He shut the door solidly behind him, Kurt sighing as he heard Blaine shift beside him.

"Who was that?" he asked, voice thick and gravelly as it usually was in the morning. Kurt smiled, reveling in the fact that he knew what it sounded like in the morning in the first place before kissing his cheek.

"No one. Go back to sleep."

"Hmm," Blaine sighed, scooting closer to wrap his arm more tightly around Kurt's waist and drifting off again. Kurt smiled, resting his chin on top of his head lightly, closing his own eyes. It was certainly late enough -- well after nine o'clock -- for him to normally feel obligated to get up.

With his warm, pliant, sleepy boyfriend still nearby, however, Kurt was in no rush. Why can't we just stay here forever? He mused wistfully. No more college worries or NYADA worries or New York worries. Dad might even be happy we're not leaving. The thought of his dad being happy about him spending copious amounts of time in his bed with his boyfriend -- however innocent -- made him huff softly in amusement.

Deciding that he would explain it all to Finn later, Kurt closed his eyes again and rested, drifting between fantasies of New York and apartments and spending lifetimes with Blaine.


	59. Chapter 59

"Where's Blaine? I thought tonight was your movie night."

"He's with Rachel," Kurt answered, flipping through one of his magazines distractedly. It had taken the better part of four weeks for him to completely re-organize his room, but now that his college boxes were set up he couldn't help but feel accomplished. It was a sign that he was moving on, that he was maturing and becoming someone he could genuinely be proud of. Even though the cardboard boxes gave him a slight feeling of nostalgia, it was exhilarating to realize that soon he would be settling in New York.

"What is all this?" Kurt's dad asked, stepping further into the room and eying his shelves skeptically. Kurt knew the sticky note organization method would be a little intimidating to the untrained eye, but for him it was a simple code. Rather than spend hours agonizing over what he would take with him and what he would leave behind, he had gone through all his meaningful possessions and tacked on a colored sticky note.

"It's my organizer," he said dismissively. Seeing his dad's blank expression, Kurt rolled his eyes slightly and set the magazine into a box with other pink-labeled possessions. "Pink means stay," he said, gesturing at the box. "Blue means go." He picked up one of his scarves demonstratively. "Red means trash." He pointedly ignored the boxes pushed up against his vanity in the corner with the red sticky notes. "Green means humidity-controlled storage as memorabilia for when I'm famous." He allowed a small smile to cross his face as he said so.

Kurt's dad still looked a little shell-shocked. "So . . . this is all trash?" he asked, orienting around the most familiar denomination and standing over the box filled with 'trash.' Kurt shrugged slightly, turning away from the mess to focus on the few unlabeled items remaining. He didn't like to think about throwing away his things -- in some ways he was almost as overprotective about them as his dad was of his own useless paraphernalia -- but he knew that logically he couldn't take everything with him, and some of it was useless and needed to be disposed of, anyway. It was easier to be heartless now and get rid of it while he was still level-headed and not terribly stressed than attempt to sort it later when he was in the midst of his New York transition.

"You can't get rid of this," Kurt's dad said. Kurt turned to look at him as he pulled out the framed certificate of Kurt's regionals' participation award. Rolling his eyes and getting off his bed, Kurt walked over and carefully took it away from him, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges. "It's special."

"Dad, it's a participation certificate," Kurt interjected, putting as much gentle admonishment in his voice as he could. He knew that, more than anyone, his dad was taking the transition hard. He had been more aloof than usual lately and had stopped insisting that Kurt (and, consequently, Blaine) join him for Friday Night Dinners. At first Kurt had assumed it was his attempt at showing more trust and bestowing additional responsibility on Kurt. Once a few weeks had passed and the shift had remained more permanent, Kurt's initial confidence that it was purely a matter of practicality faded.

"But it's from your glee club." His dad said it in a way that left no room for doubt; the surprise and, dare he name it, hurt in his voice was clear.

"Dad." Kurt replaced the certificate in the box, looking up at his father before reaching out and laying a gentle hand on his arm. "I can't become a hoarder. Some things have to go. This is one of them. There are plenty of articles commemorating my success that you can find in my pink and green boxes." He waved his free hand vaguely in their direction. "Things like this? Have to go."

His dad pulled away, shaking his head as he sat down on the edge of his bed. "Look, I'm happy that you're so enthusiastic about this, and I'm thrilled that you got into NYADA, but you can't just throw your old life away now that you're moving on. What if I want some of this stuff?" He picked up a random frame from the box; Kurt was fairly sure there was nothing in it, but the symbolism was not lost.

"You can have it," he assured. He wasn't opposed to letting his dad sort through some of his stuff, even if supervision would be necessary to ensure that he didn't just store everything in a different place. It wasn't like he wanted to deprive his father the opportunity to have some memorabilia for himself, but he knew his dad. And now was the time to get rid of things, before his own resilience wavered.

"Can I?" His voice was filled with enough dubiousness that Kurt's own heart twinged slightly in regret.

"Dad," he said quietly, "I'm leaving for college. We cannot keep everything."

There was a beat of silence before his dad was gone, Kurt sighing heavily as he shut the door gently behind him. He knew that it would be useless to try and talk to him now, but sometimes he missed the easy acceptance his dad had given him for the past seventeen years. Facing resistance from the one person he loved and trusted more than anyone (except Blaine, naturally) was difficult.

Scooping up his phone from his bed and sitting down at his vanity, he typed out a quick text to Blaine, tucking it away in his pocket when he was finished.

He knew it was a silly, childish maneuver to pull, especially since the days were numbered when he would be able to do this, but he wanted to be comforted and there was no one else he could think of that could offer him the comfort he needed. Within twenty minutes there was a knock on the door downstairs and footsteps on the stairs soon thereafter. Kurt thought he heard a brief hesitation before there was a light knock on his door.

"Come in."

Blaine stepped inside his room, pulling the door shut behind him as he walked over to Kurt. Words were not needed as Kurt held out his arms and Blaine wordlessly stepped into them, wrapping his own under and around Kurt, holding him close. It was solidarity and warmth and coherency; the three things Kurt's life seemed to be lacking more and more often as the school year dwindled down.

Kurt had promised himself that he wouldn't become overly emotional about the whole transitional phase no matter how hard it become. He didn't want to become a weeping mess every time someone mentioned graduation (as Tina was slowly evolving into). He didn't want to have bouts of near hysteria over the future as Rachel did. He didn't want to let anything detract from his would-be amazing senior year, regardless of how difficult it became.

But sometimes, he wished that he could break down like they did, that he could surrender to the fits of anxiety and anger and frustration and depression that the New Directions seemed to be slowly succumbing to. Stoicism didn't suit him, yet in a time like this when there were few people to turn to for comfort and many that needed comforting, he was glad he had Blaine.

He all but melted against him as the tension built up in his lower back over the past five hours dissipated underneath Blaine's fingers. There were slow, skilled touches, each pivot providing just enough pressure to untangle the knots he hadn't even realized were hiding there. With a soft groan of satisfaction he rested his forehead against Blaine's shoulder. Once there would have been a time when he would have worried about Blaine's ability to support his weight, but now he was confident and Blaine didn't disappoint.

"What happened?" Blaine asked, his voice low and soothing as he continued to trace meaningless shapes against Kurt's spine. Occasionally he would drag them upward in a gentle scratching way that made Kurt want to arch into him, to stay with him so that he would never stop. "Why are you so upset?"

Kurt was relatively certain that Blaine was the only person that could have categorized his demeanor as 'upset.' Rachel would have pegged him as 'pensive' at most, and everyone else would have dismissed any sort of distress upon first glance. The fact that Blaine knew he was upset -- without him having to say a word -- allowed an inexplicable calm to tide over Kurt, steadying him. Blaine knew, without having to be asked, that something was amiss. Kurt didn't have to dance around the matter with him; he could afford to be honest.

"It's all just hitting me at once," he said with a slightly breathless laugh. "The fact that I'm actually going to NYADA in less than six months."

The decision to attend NYADA had not been as simple as just receiving his acceptance letter, but after dozens of small arguments with himself, Kurt had come to the conclusion that he wanted NYADA more than anything else. He wanted to be a part of one of the top performance programs in the nation, and if he so chose there were other creative outlets he could explore there as well. Undoubtedly he would meet people of the same high caliber as himself and even more experienced ones. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and he knew that, five, ten years down the line he would regret not going to NYADA more than he would attending it over a different college.

Now that it was actually within his reach, he wanted NYADA even more than before.

"I'm not even afraid of it," he added, rambling aimlessly. "I just . . . I don't know what to do about my dad or Carole anymore. Or Finn. Or my friends. Or anyone."

He pointedly left out the or you, knowing that it would break him, that he wouldn't be able to withhold his emotions if he said it. That had been the hardest thing to come to terms with NYADA -- the fact that Blaine wasn't going. He had only broached the topic a week after Sugar's Valentine's Day party, accepting the outrage that Kurt threw at him and rebuffing it with his own need to find a college that suited him and not just them. They were separate people with different ambitions, loathe as Kurt was to admit it sometimes, and Blaine needed the freedom to find a college that genuinely suited him as much as Kurt did. It would be more restrictive than productive to tell him that he had to go to NYADA, especially with the added pressure of Kurt going to NYADA for certain.

In the end, Kurt had given in -- not without arguments and not without strain -- but he had conceded to Blaine that it was too late to change matters and that he couldn't make him choose NYADA, anyway. The possibility that NYADA might have chosen Blaine over Kurt lingered in Kurt's thoughts late at night when he was too anxious to sleep and Blaine wasn't awake to talk him out of them. Other times he imagined what it would have been like if Blaine had applied and hadn't gotten in, whether the pressure from his rejection would push Kurt to withdraw or whether it would leave them feeling guilty and bitter in the end.

"You take it day by day," Blaine said simply. "They won't all come around at once, but they love you and they're not going to begrudge you for choosing an out-of-state college. They know it's your dream, Kurt."

"It's yours, too," he whispered unthinkingly.

Blaine stiffened very slightly before relaxing. Kurt knew that the NYADA argument was as fresh in Blaine's mind as it was in his own and that it might take a few more weeks -- or months -- before the full effect of Blaine's decision not to apply would wear off. He dreaded the possibility of even more arguments but also trusted his and Blaine's ability to resolve them. Things like this didn't phase them overtly; they rose above obstacles that would seemingly crush them and grew stronger for it instead.

"You're my dream," Blaine replied, kissing the side of his neck lightly. "I want to be with you every day, Kurt. I know that that won't always be possible but . . . I want to be with you. I do."

Kurt nodded slightly, feeling calmer even though the tension with his dad hadn't fully faded.

"Then why did you pick a different college?" he blurted.

Blaine sighed and pulled back slightly. Kurt didn't let him fully retreat, locking his hands around his back, needing to keep Blaine close. Everyone else seemed to be withdrawing lately, and even Blaine had been slightly more distant than usual, but Kurt needed him here now and wasn't about to let him pull away like them.

"I'm not mad at you," Kurt said, partially truthfully. "I just wish I knew why you picked Tisch."

Blaine shrugged a little, his ears pinking at the tops. "I just . . . I saw myself there. My -- dad and I visited the campus a few times and I just . . . fell in love." A soft smile crossed his lips as he pecked Kurt's cheek. "It was before I met you, of course. Now I love you even more but . . . it stuck. I wanted to go there and after looking over the programs it offers, I knew which college I wanted to be at."

"What kind of programs?" Kurt asked, guiding them back until he was sitting on the bed and Blaine was standing in front of him between his legs.

Blaine shrugged again, intertwining their hands. "Performance. Theater. Drama. Cinematography. Dramatic writing."

Kurt arched an eyebrow at the last two. "Thinking about becoming a movie director?"

"No -- or, at least, not yet." Blaine shimmied around until Kurt was lying full-length on the bed and Blaine was hovering over top of him, straddling his waist lightly. "I'm not sure what I want to go for."

"You could be anything," Kurt said musingly, lifting his hands to trail them down Blaine's sides lightly. The thin blue t-shirt he was wearing left little to the imagination, and Kurt paused slightly when his fingers bumped over the uneven patch over his ribs. Blaine didn't say anything, just let him do it until Kurt felt sufficiently lulled by the action. "Are you ever going to tell me about this?" he asked at last, quietly, when his fingers came to rest over the scars for the fourth time.

He looked up at Blaine when the latter said nothing, staring blankly down at Kurt's hand as though he couldn't comprehend what he was asking. Despite their increasingly heated make-out sessions, they hadn't addressed the scars in any greater detail. In some ways, Kurt had anticipated it -- the knowledge freely given but not forced out of Blaine -- but sometimes he wondered whether Blaine would ever tell him at all. Lying there, without urgency, Kurt felt like he could wait years for it: he just wanted to know.

An uncountable amount of time passed in silence. At last, Blaine shifted so he was lying beside Kurt instead of hovering over him. Without breaking his gaze, he reached down and intertwined their fingers, giving Kurt's hand a brief squeeze. Kurt squeezed back and said nothing, waiting.

At last, quietly: "Glass."

"Hmm?" Kurt didn't mean for the small, questioning sound to escape him, hadn't even fully registered the single, almost soundless syllable that had slipped past Blaine's lips, but Blaine didn't seem to perceive it as anything other than permission to continue.

"It was after the Sadie Hawkins' dance." Kurt tensed involuntarily; Blaine didn't seem to notice. "When we were waiting outside for Luke's dad . . . Luke's dad . . . he was running late. He had a dinner that ran overtime and there was traffic and he just . . . we were only supposed to be outside a few minutes. I wanted to go back in but -- but Luke said we should stay, his dad was texting him saying he was at a stoplight a few blocks down and he'd be there soon." Blaine swallowed slightly and Kurt thought he saw his fingers twitch into fists before forcibly relaxing. He stroked his own fingers soothingly up and down Blaine's arm, willing him to continue.

"I don't remember much about the attack," he admitted, almost apologetically. There was a slight, bitter smile around his lips. "And I'm glad that I don't. When I came to--" He bit his lip, shook his head, and visibly abandoned that train of thought. "They were drunk. One of the guys . . . he was passed out against one of the dumpsters nearby. And in his hand . . ." the small smile grew even more bitter, "there were . . . shards. Glass shards. From a bottle. His hands were all bloody and I--" He gestured vaguely at his own side. "I guess he wanted to leave something a little more . . . memorable."

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt breathed, staring at his own fingers, covering the shirt where the scars were. "Blaine. . . ."

"I'm out," he said, his tone a parody of his former words, spoken so long ago when Kurt had asked him to come to his prom, "and I'm proud, but this is just . . . a sore spot. Something that doesn't go away." He bit his lip slightly, looking suddenly uncertain. "It's not a big deal. Not anymore. It's just . . . a reminder."

Kurt didn't say anything, instead scooting closer and, when Blaine didn't move away, wrapping his arm around his waist. For a time they were quiet, Kurt listening to Blaine's heartbeat underneath his ear and Blaine lightly stroking the middle of his back.

"I can't believe that happened to you," Kurt said at last.

Blaine didn't respond immediately, neither shifting nor making a noise, and for a moment Kurt thought he had fallen asleep. "They were part of my past," was all he said, nuzzling the top of Kurt's head. "You're part of my future."

* * *

"Dudes, what took you so long? Hummel, Anderson, sit."

"What's going on?" Blaine asked, stepping around the mess strewn across the library floor and taking a seat in one of the large plush chairs perched around the corners. The remaining New Directions had already chosen their seats; Kurt was left to sit in the chair next to Blaine's, eying Puck skeptically. He was perched at the center of their impromptu circle, his hands clasped in his lap as he stared hard around the room.

"So! Tomorrow's skip day and we still haven't figured out what the hell we're doing for it."

"I was all for a Halo 3 marathon," Artie interjected, waving a hand pointedly in the air.

"You're also a junior, dude."

"So? I didn't come here for nothing. I want in on this."

Puck rolled his eyes, looking undisturbed. "Fine. Anyway. Now that Artie's an honorary senior. . . . Ideas?"

Rachel's hand shot up, shortly followed by outbursts from various members of the New Directions. Blaine said nothing, preferring to let them sort it out as ideas were passed around and across the circle. Somewhat amazed that the librarian hadn't commented on the noise level or berated them for their disturbance, he jolted slightly when Kurt nudged his arm.

"You in?" Puck asked.

Blaine blinked. "For what?"

Puck lifted his hands in exasperation. "Dude, are you coming with us or not?"

"I -- of course I am." It hadn't crossed Blaine's mind that he needed to ask for it -- the others had simply assumed their invitation from the start -- but he supposed it made sense, in a bizarrely protective way. Once a Warbler, always a Warbler, he thought, almost wryly. They wouldn't want to take someone along with them if he wouldn't be a true team player; the thought that Puck had to ask him made Blaine's heart clench briefly. "I'm in."

"Awesome," Puck said, clapping his hands together. "So it's settled. Anyone who's coming better get their ass over to my place by nine tomorrow if they're coming. If not, we aren't waiting."

"Damn straight," Artie said.

"Wait, hold up, your place?" Santana demanded. She had chosen one of the chairs closest to the door, almost exactly opposite with Puck. It was oddly fitting: of the females, Blaine thought, she was the most intimidating (closely followed by Quinn and Rachel on a bad day).

"Of course," Puck replied, unperturbed. "Got a problem with it?"

"I've seen your place, Puckerman, and lemme just say? Not worth the drive."

"It's just for the morning," Puck said, rolling his eyes. "Calm the hell down. You don't have to come if you can't stand 'my place' that much."

Santana said nothing, only giving him a glare that Blaine was fairly sure could melt ice. Curious about what sort of prior experiences she had had at the Puckerman's residence, he decided that, if he still wanted to be included in this whole 'senior ditch day,' he was better off not asking questions.

"Any other questions?" Puck asked, the sarcasm dripping off his voice.

A moment of silence, and then Brittany asked, "What should I wear?"

* * *

"Oooh, we have to ride this one, it's amazing."

Upon first glance, Blaine would not have thought of Kurt as a roller-coaster aficionado. Perhaps he would tolerate some of the more intense ones and haughtily declare the extreme suitable only for 'junkies,' but the opposite seemed true. As soon as they were inside the park (the New Directions had arrived at varying times but agreed to hang out at Puck's place long enough to decide where they would rendezvous for lunch and 'important rides'), he, Rachel, Finn, and Kurt had split off from the main group and were off for the big leagues.

Blaine had thought he was prepared to meet any of Kurt's demands -- again, under the assumption that Kurt wouldn't be a roller-coaster fanatic and would instead prefer tame to intense -- but now that they were in the parks he was surprised to find just how daring Kurt was. Not one to shy away from a challenge, he had endured every loop, turn, twist, jolt, dive, and climb without complaint. Now that it was almost rendezvous time and Kurt and Rachel were still bouncing eagerly at the front (Blaine couldn't tell if Finn's excitement behind them was feigned or real), Blaine wondered how they were planning on fitting in another ride before the meeting.

"Blaine?"

Blaine blinked and looked at Kurt, offering a slightly sheepish smile as he realized he had been standing aimlessly in place as they had walked ahead. "Yes?"

"Are you coming with us or just going to stand here for the next few hours?"

"I'll come," Blaine said, impulsively reaching over to link arms with Kurt. The latter hesitated a moment before letting him, a slightly surprised smile crossing Blaine's face as he did so.

The mere gesture of touching Kurt -- holding him back, perhaps, from his former gusto -- had a calming effect on both of them. The pace slowed to a more bearable level and Blaine felt less anxious about the ambitious plans that Rachel and Kurt had for the day. They met up with the rest of the New Directions -- all in varying states of disarray according to the intensity of the coasters they had ridden -- and rode a few of the bigger ones together. Lines were long and the waits even longer, but they found ways to pass the time and by late afternoon they had covered all the bases and were ready to call it a day.

"I don't understand. You won't stand to let me touch your hair in public but you'll ride roller coasters?" Blaine asked once they were comfortably squashed in the back of Rachel's car. She had opted to drive them for the sole reason that it would allow her and Finn to go back to her place without Blaine and Kurt intruding. It was more expedient and, unwilling to argue, Blaine had obligingly gone along with it.

"Roller coasters are different," Kurt said with a slight shrug. "My hair still looks flawless at the end of them."

Blaine argued playfully with him for the next half hour, getting out at Kurt's house and smiling at Rachel and Finn before heading in through the front door.

"Dad, we're back," Kurt announced, toeing his boots off carefully. "Dad?"

"He's in the shop," Carole called back, emerging from the kitchen a moment later. "How was it? Did you have fun?"

Kurt launched into a cheerful explanation of the day's events, Blaine slinking off to sit on the couch as he did so. He startled when Kurt immediately angled over and sat beside him, cuddling up to his side and continuing his conversation with Carole without missing a beat. Blaine hesitated, unsure how he should respond to Kurt's sudden need for closeness despite his stepmother's presence -- usually by unspoken consent they kept to themselves unless they were in Kurt's room, respecting Burt's generosity to let Blaine room with Kurt -- before wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist. He had to shift his legs to compensate for his weight as he leaned back but soon Blaine was propped against the arm of the chair with Kurt sitting in between his legs, leaning back against his chest comfortably.

Carole didn't seem to mind, reappearing a few minutes later and plunking down with a book in one of the remaining chairs. Blaine waited for her to look pointedly at them, make any small gesture to indicate that they should keep it a little more family-friendly, but she didn't say anything. Relaxing slightly, he intertwined his fingers over Kurt's stomach, letting him play with his fingers as he talked.

It wasn't until Burt arrived and Carole surreptitiously disappeared upstairs that Blaine realized why Kurt had deliberately kept him where he was. Pinned behind him and locked in an undeniably suggestive position, he didn't have time to move -- or even process the fact that someone had arrived -- before Burt was in the door and looking at Kurt with silent consideration.

"Hey," was all he said, "have fun on the trip?"

"Mmhm," Kurt replied. It was considerably toned down from the bubbly rant he had given Carole, but Blaine didn't say anything. He wasn't entirely convinced that Burt wouldn't kick him out if he pushed the limits of his tolerance -- Blaine was Kurt's boyfriend, after all, and that had to have some influence on Burt's decisions -- but he had no control over it and knew there was no point trying to escape it now. Burt would either kick him out or he wouldn't. He would either tell them to 'keep it PG' or he wouldn't.

It was all up to Burt and Blaine knew that Kurt had deliberately forced him to confront this issue. Why now, Blaine didn't know. There was something about the way Kurt lay in his arms -- complacent and unquestioning -- that let Blaine know that Kurt wasn't trying to put him in an awkward position. He just had to know. Where things stood, what his dad would tolerate and what was too much.

At last: "Just let me know when you two are planning on heading upstairs, okay? I still want to watch that football game and I know you aren't a fan, bud."

"I like football," Blaine chimed in, unthinkingly.

"We can stay," Kurt added smoothly, a soft smile creasing his face.

And maybe at first it was difficult to ignore the fact that Kurt's dad was sitting with them watching the same unexciting football game for an hour. Maybe it was strange that Blaine was allowed to hold his boyfriend so close in front of his boyfriend's parent without protest.

Maybe it was different, but maybe it was an improvement, as well. Blaine settled more comfortably into the game as it heated up, commentating with Burt when the latter grunted something about the offense. Kurt didn't bother adding his own commentary, instead preferring to listen to Blaine and his dad complacently.

In the end, they left long before Burt might have told them to. Kurt feigned exhaustion and Blaine, not wanting to linger too long, followed him after a moment's hesitation. He saw Burt turn slightly to watch them disappear up the stairs before sighing heavily to himself. Smiling tentatively, wanting to believe that Burt's approval was his, Blaine followed Kurt to his room.

Their routine was simple, shared, a combination of familiarity and comfort around each other. Blaine knew Kurt's moisturizing routine almost as well as Kurt did, and it was an easy matter to determine who slept on what side of the bed. Sometimes Blaine wondered if Kurt was bothered by the lack of space -- alone time, other people might have called it -- but for the most part he seemed unperturbed. As if to prove the point, Kurt scooted closer to him underneath the covers and wrapped his arms around him, cuddling close. Blaine wrapped his own wordlessly around Kurt, listening to his breathing and feeling his muscles unwinding.

"Today was fun," Kurt said softly. "I'm glad we went."

Blaine smiled and kissed the top of his head. "Me too. No regrets? You went pretty crazy on those rides. I can't believe how many we went on."

Kurt huffed and kissed him once fondly, shaking his head when he pulled back. "No regrets."

* * *

"We're just seventeen days away from Prom and things are looking hot! Rumor has it Quinn Fabray will not be attending with football star Finn Hudson but former badass Noah Puckerman. Miss Fabray, any comment on the affair?"

"Rumor also has it that Will Schuester, closeted-gay leader of the glee club, will be responsible for the prom set-up and orchestration. Thanks to my latest poll and subsequent discouragement, he will not been rapping for our 'entertainment.'"

"Hottie Santana Lopez has not made plans for the dance but will be attending with someone. Who's the lucky guy gonna be? Hubba-hubba!"

"His commentary gets worse by the day," Kurt muttered, shaking his head as he watched Jacob Ben Israel flit among the students. With less than a month until prom the rumor mill was sharper than ever; even the most secure of the elite were eying each other suspiciously in the hallways. Kurt knew that it shouldn't bother him -- the assessing glares, the calculating glances -- but sometimes he couldn't help but wish that he had never gone to prom the previous year. It wouldn't have made a difference -- the write-in votes would still have been cast and his name would still have horrifyingly been announced as the 'victor' of the prom queen poll -- but at least they wouldn't have seen him physically accept the crown.

I'm going to go in there and get coroneted.

"You okay?" Blaine's voice was a ray of hope in the sea of skeptical glances; Kurt smiled as he turned slightly to look at him.

"I'm fine," he said dismissively, pulling out a can of hairspray and making a slight shooing gesture at Blaine. The latter wisely stepped aside and let Kurt manage his hair, stepping close again once he was done. "It's just Ben Israel up to his usual nonsense. I just don't understand why he's so obsessed with the glee club. The rest of the school must be pretty dry excitement-wise."

"Maybe he wants to join the glee club?" Blaine suggested. The teasing note in his voice comforted Kurt that he wasn't serious, the image of Jacob Ben Israel sitting in the choir room and performing on stage with them disturbing enough that he filed it away for 'thoughts never to be considered again.' "Or maybe he's just crushing on the girls," he added, wrinkling his nose as he watched the boy chase after Mike and Tina before they could get out of sight.

"Considering what he looks like, I wouldn't be surprised," Kurt said. "Although you would think with nationals approaching he would realize that, given my expertise, the glee club will no longer be considered the 'gayest club in school.'"

"It sort of is, though," Blaine reminded with a slight smile. He dropped his voice and light tone as he counted them off his fingers, leaning against the lockers and looking at Kurt as he said them. "Between you, me, Santana, and Brittany. . . ."

"Brittany's more . . . bi-curious," Kurt amended, "and I don't even know where Santana's head is at." Kurt shook his own head; sometimes he doubted that he would ever understand her fully. Even when she was bluntly honest with him there always seemed to be some hidden message underneath, and the admission that she 'loved' Brittany was hard to quantify considering her past record with the guy jocks. Maybe she was lesbian, and maybe she was bi-curious, and maybe there simply wasn't a proper label to describe her. Whatever the case, he knew better than to ask and best of all to steer clear of her. She would admit to more than 'straight' on her own time, and if she and Brittany did come out as a couple (which, Kurt thought, would not be the least of the surprises of the year, if not the most dangerous or shocking), then he would be supportive.

Until then, avoidance was best; Santana's wrath had no bounds, and when scorned, Santana threatened the safety of every man walking.

"So, what's the verdict on prom this year? Classical, futuristic, way-out-there?" Blaine quizzed.

Kurt blinked and looked at him, genuinely surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You're the class president," Blaine said, blinking back. "Didn't you know that you're the prom coordinator as well? You're in charge of picking the theme."

"I -- what? Blaine, prom is in two weeks." Kurt did his best not to let his panic seep into his voice but he couldn't help himself -- up until that moment his greatest concern for the present had been whether or not Mr. Schuester would ever make up his mind on their nationals' arrangements. Hearing that he was supposed to think of something for prom made Kurt's heart skip a beat, the sudden, overwhelming nature of the task hitting him hard.

Now I definitely can't avoid it, he thought wryly, good and bad memories threatening to cloud his judgment. He remembered the humiliation and fear and exhaustion he had felt last year when they had dubbed him 'Prom Queen,' but also the sense of victory and strength and growing that he had experienced when he had mustered the courage to walk back into that room and get coroneted. Maybe it wasn't the perfect night, but he was able to dance with his boyfriend and even have fun with him for the rest of the night, and that was all that had mattered.

"Kurt? Kurt?" Blaine sounded almost frantic, his grip on Kurt's arm tightening before he realized that he had been staring off into space blankly, not giving any sign of recognition for Blaine's panic. "Please talk to me. You still have seventeen days, and we can work this out together, and--"

"Blaine." Blaine stopped speaking at once, looking at Kurt with tentative hope. "I can handle this. I just . . . need a few days to think about it, okay?"

Blaine nodded, pulling back from him and smiling. "Okay. Good. And Kurt? It'll be fine. You're amazing. Go with your instinct and it'll be spectacular."

Spectacular. Right.

"Okay," Kurt echoed, watching Blaine hurry off to his first class as the bell rang.

Now all I have to do is plan a prom for the school. Easy.

* * *

"Pink means stay," Kurt rehearsed softly, "red means trash." He carefully switched two of his sticky notes, staring pensively at the results before moving on. "Blue means go." He smiled at the items that had been pegged to join him in New York -- among them the picture of him and Blaine at prom last year, the light pink corsage Blaine had given him sitting next to the silvery frame -- before moving on. "Green means humidity-controlled storage."

"Wow," Finn said, breaking his reverie as he stepped over the threshold to his room. "Dude, this is crazy."

"This is planning, Finn," Kurt said.

"Yeah, I noticed." Finn didn't move further into the room, reluctant to disturb anything. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Depends. Are you going to criticize my college organizer?"

"What? No, dude, no. I just . . . Rachel."

Kurt paused in the process of fluffing one of his pillows (Blaine had the unseemly habit of latching onto it and squashing it in the mornings whenever Kurt left to get ready in the morning), turning to look at Finn. "What about Rachel?"

"You and Blaine just seem to have everything figured out," Finn said, sounding distinctly exasperated. "And Rachel and I keep hitting all these . . . road bumps. She wants to go straight to New York City and I just . . . I don't know what I want."

"You don't have to go to New York with her, Finn," Kurt pointed out. "Your future isn't completely dependent on her. Just like hers isn't on you."

"I know but . . . I don't want to leave her, dude."

"And you won't be." Kurt turned around to look at Finn finally, a slight smile crossing his face despite himself. "Finn, I'm sure if you really want it you and Rachel will stay together for as long as you want."

"I want to stay with her forever," Finn said at once.

"Then . . . you will. But you have to work for it and compromise is key."

"You and Blaine aren't compromising." The sudden accusation in his voice was more hurt than accusing; Kurt knew that he wasn't angry, just frustrated.

"We aren't going to the same college, Finn. That's compromise."

"You and Blaine sleep in the same bedroom," Finn retorted quietly. "That doesn't seem like compromise to me."

"Finn, Blaine isn't going to stay here forever. When we go to New York, we're not going to be together the entire time. We have to deal with the whole . . . separation issue, too. And I get that it's not easy for you but . . . it's not easy for us either."

There was a long pause, Finn looking uncertainly around the room. "Yeah. It's not. I just . . . I don't know what to do sometimes, you know? And I see you two . . . being all . . . happy all the time. You don't just . . . quip at each other like Rachel and I do."

"Our romances are different, Finn," Kurt said, patting his arm slightly. "And I'm impressed that you know the word 'quip.'"

The familiar half-smile crossed Finn's face as he grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, um, Rachel taught it to me. You know . . . yeah." He nodded slightly to himself before stepping back. "Thanks, dude."

Kurt blinked. "You're welcome?"

Finn smiled and stepped out of the room, leaving Kurt alone with his items again.

A tiny smile twitched at the corners of his lips as he checked the door for any signs of Finn before flopping down onto his bed contentedly. "I am lucky to have him," he said softly, reaching over to cuddle the same pillow Blaine had crushed earlier. He would have to get up in a moment or two, resume ordinary life and prepare for college, but for now . . . .

For now, it was nice to pretend that this was as complicated as things could become.


	60. Chapter 60

"It is my understanding that you have proposed to remove the offices of prom king and queen for McKinley's prom this year."

Kurt nodded, his hands folded in his lap as he sat in one of the large chairs in front of the principal, his demeanor calm. "Principal Figgins," he said, leaning forward slightly, "I know that this school has many outdated traditions that need to be removed."

"Such as?" Figgins didn't sound particularly accusatory or pleased; he just seemed thoughtful. Kurt didn't need further encouragement as he sat back, ticking the points off his fingers.

"Dodgeball. Freezing and reheating microwavable food packages in the cafeteria. The fact that being slammed into a locker doesn't constitute bullying."

"Mr. Hummel, you know that I have pleaded your case before the school board and that there is no way that they can take action against that. Our budget does not allow for 'high maintenance' food, and dodgeball is listed as one of our acceptable school sports."

"Dodgeball is mandatory," Kurt reminded, "school sports are not."

"Either way, the decision remains unchanged. Unless someone is seriously injured--"

"Rory Flanagan got a bloody nose!" Kurt broke in, unable to help himself. "And Sugar Motta almost got a concussion last week when Finn hit her with one."

"Almost, Mr. Hummel." Figgins' face held nothing but resignation to the fact; he clearly took no joy from the admission. For one brief moment Kurt wondered if he was genuinely disappointed with the state of affairs around his school. A quick look around the office -- calm and immaculate, untouched by the outside world -- removed his conviction. Perhaps Figgins might have had more sympathy for the students he safe-guarded if it wasn't for the fact that he was so removed from them; as far as he was concerned, the sole existence of locker-shoves and slushy facials took place because of students' words. "Unfortunately, the rule book clearly states that unless dramatic injury has been sustained, we are not obliged to cancel the activity."

"So, someone needs to get a life-threatening injury to change the current policy?" Kurt pointed out caustically.

"No," Figgins sighed, "they need only sustain one that would require medical attention."

"That's insane."

"That's school policy."

Kurt resisted the urge to snap back that school policy was also arguably insane and took a deep, silent breath instead, calming himself. He had other goals in mind with this particular meeting, and pushing for the issues he could not change at the moment would only detract from them. "I'm aware that certain policies aren't easy to change," he said calmly, "but there are no official rules stating that at prom, a king and queen must be crowned."

"It is tradition. The students would riot," Figgins reminded.

"Slushying was tradition until we took out the slushy machines, and there was no riot," Kurt retorted. It was true: while the jocks still cast them side-looks in the hallways, their hands instinctively clenching to raise a cup full of slush that wasn't there, there hadn't been any future slushying incidents at McKinley to Kurt's knowledge. The Sebastian rock-salt slushy -- Kurt's heart still clenched at the thought that he was the one meant to endure that, not Blaine -- didn't count for their tally. "I don't see why they can't learn to accept the demise of a popularity contest no one even invested themselves in enough to choose serious candidates."

"Mr. Hummel, I understand that last year was a sore spot for you--"

"Do you?" Kurt asked quietly. "Because I seem to recall you were the one that announced my name in front of the entire student body present. You were the one to hold me responsible for that position despite knowing that a male student being crowned queen was humiliating and wrong."

"I had no choice!" Figgins exclaimed. "Who else would I have announced? I'm sorry, Mr. Hummel, but you received the greatest number of write-in votes and I am not in authority to contest that!"

"You're the principal," Kurt reminded. "If you don't have the authority to stop a blatantly homophobic attack on another student, then no one at this school has any authority." He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the words to sink in as Principal Figgins stared at him.

At last, Figgins leaned back in his chair and shook his head slightly, hands clasped in front of him. "Very well. If you wish to remove the titles of prom king and queen from this year's court, I would only advise that you wait a week before finalizing the decision."

"Prom is in two weeks," Kurt pointed out. "That doesn't exactly give me much time to alert the student body and curb 'campaigns' that are already being run."

Figgins steepled his fingers on his desk, looking across it at Kurt seriously. "I know that last year's results were not favorable to you," he said simply, "but to deprive the student body as a whole from this opportunity is a serious matter. There will be upset; there will be discontent; and there will be frustration as a result. I don't want either of us entering this decision hastily."

Kurt said nothing for a long moment, reflecting upon the fact that the student body had elected him prom queen last year and thus not endeared themselves to him in any way. Shaking his head, he stood up, using one hand to steady him against the chair. "I'll think about it," was all he said.

Figgins nodded, looking distinctly relieved. "Good. And Mr. Hummel?" Kurt paused midway to the door, turning to look at him. "I would be deeply surprised if the students attempted a similar election as they did last year."

"Why?" Kurt couldn't help the soft curiosity that infused his voice. A trace of distaste for Figgins lingered underneath the surface; his trust for the principal was virtually nonexistent, regardless of anything else that had been said or done. The incident at prom last year had only solidified his conviction that the principal was powerless. Everything else that had occurred since then added fodder to the fire.

"The student body is less inclined to use such menial tactics for petty vengeance anymore," Figgins replied. "They have seen the results that serious criminal intent can have on the school. Traumatic events like that change people."

Kurt shook his head infinitesimally, disbelieving that the student body had been changed as a whole because of the Barter fires earlier in the year. None of them had had to deal with the horror, the terror that they might lose their boyfriend, that people they loved were trapped and slowly suffocating. None of them had spent hours agonizing over records searching for the culprit in the midst of a completely disorganized system.

None of them probably even remembered the fact that the fires had taken place.

And yet . . . it would explain why the dumpster-dives had been fewer, the slushy facials diminishing even before Kurt officially had the machines removed. There were still the same jocks giving him critical glances, sneering looks that revealed their inner disgust with him, but none of them had thus far acted upon it. Maybe the changes weren't dramatic enough to fully restore Kurt's hope that the school's overall environment could be improved, but . . . he couldn't deny that there had been changes, however small.

Inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment, he turned towards the door and left without another word.

* * *

"So, are we still on for the music store this afternoon? You can help me pick out some songs for my NYADA portfolio."

"Why do you need a NYADA portfolio? I thought they already accepted you," Blaine asked, brow furrowed as he shut his locker door.

Kurt rolled his eyes, leaning back against the set of lockers beside him. "I need a NYADA portfolio because all incoming freshman are required to present one in addition to their application. It's for future reference." He looked up at Blaine, offering his best charming smile. "So, do you want to help me out?"

"I guess I could," Blaine said, sorting through his locker carefully, "but I kind of promised Nick and Jeff I'd meet them after Warbler's practice."

Kurt paused mid-delighted smile, tilting his head slightly out of curiosity. "Since when are you three on talking terms?"

Blaine shrugged, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "They were my friends," he said quietly. "I just . . . I'm willing to hear them out. Now that it's been a few weeks."

"Blaine, they sided with the guy that almost blinded you," Kurt reminded, standing up fully. He could almost feel the way Blaine shied away from the fact, his actions smooth and precise as he reached into his locker and pulled out a few books, stacking them on his arm carefully. "You don't have to forgive them."

"Maybe I want to?" Blaine retorted.

Kurt lifted his eyebrows and said nothing.

"Forget it," Blaine sighed, shutting his locker. "I'll -- we can reschedule. We can go to the music store--"

"Don't reschedule." Now Blaine's reluctance was clearly showing, the doubt on his face unmistakable. "Don't cancel. I'll just . . . go by myself."

"Are you sure?" For a moment, the sheer amount of earnestness in Blaine's gaze made Kurt want to take it back, to say that he needed Blaine to accompany him because he wanted a second opinion on this. It was true that the prospect of attending NYADA had loomed large and nearly unattainable for months for him, but having other people to support him and inspire him had made it more bearable. The thought of venturing forward alone terrified him but . . . he could do this. He was supposed to be strong enough to manage on his own, anyway.

"Of course," he said simply. "I'll text you afterward, okay? Just let me know how it goes with Nick and Jeff."

"Of course," Blaine echoed, managing a small smile. "Hopefully it'll be fine. We just need to . . . sort some things out." He turned to look fully at Kurt, smiling more broadly as he did so. "I'll make it up to you another time," he promised, giving Kurt's arm a light squeeze. "And my phone's always on if you want a second opinion on something."

Kurt nodded. "I might take advantage of that," he admitted.

Blaine gave his arm another gentle squeeze before nodding and hurrying off to his class as the bell rang. Kurt couldn't help but smile as he watched him -- sometimes it amused him how seriously Blaine took the bells at McKinley considering how few teachers actually cared about their students arriving to class on time. Then he remembered exactly why Blaine would take bells more seriously than most other students and sobered.

Maybe the student body hasn't changed much, he reflected, but we have.

* * *

The music store was surprisingly quiet when Kurt arrived. It was mid-afternoon and, accordingly, there was a pleasant mill of customers browsing aimlessly among the shelves. Few of them were doing more than looking at a few records or albums before moving on, though, and he felt vaguely off-center without Rachel or Blaine or someone else to chime in a secondary opinion. Drawing in a deep breath and reminding himself that he had not grown dependent on their input, he started scanning the shelves more intently, quickly realizing that the higher quality works were located near the center of the shop.

His perusal was slow but steady, eventually working his way up from few ideas to a veritable stream of them teaming with potential. With nimble fingers he picked over the albums, toying with their songs for a moment in his mind before replacing them back on the shelves. It was a tedious but rewarding process as he worked his way through the selections; a sense of pride began to fill him as he stocked up a mental portfolio of those which he wanted to use for his NYADA portfolio.

A sudden, chipper voice invaded his quiet bubble, making him startle as a bespectacled employee appeared from around the corner. He barely registered the first words, a brief introduction, perhaps, as the frazzled young man hurried to speak to him. For a moment Kurt was tempted to tell him that he had everything he needed and could manage the rest when the man's words burst forth.

"I have to say, that hippopotamus brooch is lovely," he chirped.

"Thank you," Kurt said, unable to help the slightly preening note to his voice. Blaine had become so accustomed to his odd selections that he rarely commented on any of it, instead giving him the same warm, tender-eyed smiles that he'd been giving him for the past six months. While Kurt certainly didn't mind the mute indications of his approval, it was refreshing to hear the words spoken aloud. And from a stranger, he could admit in the quiet, selfish corner of his mind that liked being complimented and praised and validated by people that weren't his boyfriend.

"I've been dying to find one like it," the employee continued on with a woe begotten air, "but I'm afraid I couldn't wear it half as well as you do, anyway."

A tinge of color pinked Kurt's cheeks even as he smiled. He didn't know how to respond to that. The same friendly tone was there, but an underlying layer of interest had sparked underneath the words, making them more intense, somehow, more personal.

"It's just something I had lying around," Kurt said, aiming for dismissive.

The employee shook his head in awed disbelief, assessing Kurt with a newly appreciative eye. "So what is a fashionista like yourself doing in a place like this?"

"Looking for inspiration," Kurt said vaguely, turning slightly to sift through the shelves. He couldn't help it if his gaze continued to stray towards the stranger; instinct, if nothing else, had taught him not to ignore unknown but potential threats.

"Theater performance? Drama, writing, directing?" The excited gleam in his eyes was infectious; Kurt couldn't help but feel a slight glow of belonging that he hadn't felt with other people beyond the four walls of the Glee club in years.

"It's for my NYADA portfolio, actually," he said before he could help himself.

The young man let out a noise that could only be definable as a delighted squeal as he shook his head in disbelief, staring at Kurt with renewed awe. "Oh my gosh, NYADA is the most prestigious performing arts school in the country," he said, fanning himself with a hand. "To be accepted into it at such a young age is to be accepted into the sponsorship of the greats of Broadway themselves. You must be amazing."

Kurt shrugged a little, suddenly bashful. "I'm sufficient," he evaded primly.

"Exceptional, if Carmen Tibideaux has anything to say about it."

The name was familiar, a nagging itch on Kurt's mind that at once was alleviated when he recalled the stoic-faced seat of the NYADA recruiting administration. She had been responsible for personally viewing each of the potential candidates once they reached a certain level in the application process. Kurt felt a faint sense of awe as he realized that she had been the one who, without ever personally meeting him, had changed his entire future. His heart swelled with sudden gratitude as he realized that, without her acceptance, he would be standing instead in Rachel's shoes, bereft of the dream he had thought unattainable and forced himself to believe in only to find it unreachable in the end. The thought made his stomach clench with guilt over the fact that he had been ignoring her for the past few weeks -- largely out of regret that he had made it in without her -- while she had been stewing in her failure and seeking out other options for her future.

"Look, I know this is rather sudden," the employee said, and Kurt blinked once dazedly as he realized that he had continued speaking regardless of Kurt's attention. "But would you mind if I gave a few pointers? I haven't personally been admitted to the school -- I'm only a sophomore," here his cheeks pinked and Kurt couldn't suppress a small smile at the sight, "but I would love to assist you in any way I can."

"I -- that's very generous of you," Kurt said.

"It's nothing," the employee insisted. "I'm Chandler, by the way. Chandler Kiehl." He thrust out a hand jocularly and, without any reason not to accept, Kurt shook it, feeling an odd sense of deja vu as he did so.

"Kurt Hummel," he replied. "You can call me Kurt," he added, not entirely sure why except for perhaps the beaming smile Chandler gave him a moment afterward.

"I know that you won't need much guidance in this venue," Chandler went on, "but our resources here at Between the Sheets are at your disposal. We have classical, operatic, symphonic, romantic, baroque, neoclassical . . . ." He rambled off happily the various time periods included among the shelves, Kurt occasionally stopping him to peer more intently at one of the pieces offered. Chandler was patient and honest, criticizing those that he found 'unworthy of Tibideaux's time' and lavishly praising those he found of a more suitable nature.

"Wow," Kurt breathed as, half an hour later he stood back in the middle of the store with a list of musical selections hastily scrawled onto a notepad he had brought for the occasion, "thank you so much. I know that you have other customers. . . ."

"It's nothing, it's no trouble at all," Chandler demurred. Then, glancing shyly down at his shoes, he looked back up at Kurt and asked, his voice noticeably subdued but his smile still bright, "I know that it's not really my place to ask or offer but . . . can I get your phone number? I would love to hear more about how your NYADA experience goes, and I'm always available for your best musical advice."

Kurt opened his mouth to tell him that that was a little too close to making this entire affair flirtatious -- already the casual arm grabbing and hand touching had seemed a little startling for someone that Kurt had barely met -- yet he couldn't think of a reason why it wouldn't be okay to give him his number. Chandler had given him some valuable input, even including more audacious choices that Kurt wouldn't have necessarily picked out on his own. He may not have always been the most stable of hosts but he was friendly and enthusiastic and good-spirited.

Shutting his mouth, Kurt rattled his number off to Chandler, who eagerly punched it into his contacts. "Thank you so much," he beamed. "You won't regret this, trust me. I've helped many a stray find their way to greatness through a good song selection, and I'm sure you're already well on your way."

Exchanging the requisite goodbyes in friendly silence, Kurt left the store as soon as he had finished scribbling Chandler down on his notepad. Not ten feet from the store itself his phone buzzed in his pocket. For a moment a spark of curiosity leaped in his chest as he thought of Blaine's conversation with Jeff and Nick. It seemed early for him to be finished already -- the drive out to Westerville took almost two hours and, not knowing exactly how their schedules would play out, there was no guarantee that he would find them immediately -- but he fumbled in his pocket for a moment eagerly and felt slightly crestfallen when he realized that it wasn't from Blaine.

The number wasn't listed as a contact but, having just written it in his notebook, Kurt recognized it and hit the open message button. A small smile creased his lips as he saw the, Hi, Kurt! It's Chandler from Between the Sheets. Can't wait to talk with you more!

I suppose, Kurt conceded, typing out a quick response before tossing his phone on the passenger's seat of his Navigator. He still had a few hours to kill -- Blaine had told him not to expect him until later between the drive and the actual meeting with Jeff and Nick itself -- and coffee was calling him.

* * *

It was strange to walk into Dalton Academy and know that he wasn't a student. Despite the months standing between his transfer and his present condition, Blaine couldn't help but recall how his schedule would have looked if he had stayed: spending hours in his dorm and other rooms studying while the rest of his time was apportioned out between the Warblers and other activities. Unlike McKinley, Dalton had always emphasized academic excellence and good peer relationships, something that resulted in the inevitable 'preppyness' of the school. It was comforting, in its own way, to return. However briefly the visit, he still felt a vague pull from the school, an aching to return to his former life.

It wouldn't be the same, he reminded himself, steeling his conscience against the sudden and inexplicable urge to go up to his old dorm room and settle in again. It wasn't his anymore, and he knew that even if he stood in the physical room it would never be his again. He had left it behind as soon as he'd signed his names at the bottom of the transfer papers and, however much he might or might not wish to change it, that was the way things were.

Pausing outside the administrative wing briefly, Blaine checked his watch. A small smile curled his lips as he traced the carefully worked metal with his thumb; he was fairly sure that, even if he never wore the watch against, the tiny engraving on the back would be indented on the back of his wrist forever. It still gave him a slight thrill to realize that he had given Kurt a promise ring and Kurt had given him this in exchange; something equally potent, equally memorable for them both.

He would never forget the day they had met, regardless of the metal etching on the back, but the thoughtfulness of the gesture made his heart ache with how much he loved his boyfriend.

Striding down the hall towards the senior commons as the small hand inched towards noon, he paused as he saw a blazer-clad figure disappear around the opposite corner. He closed his eyes instinctively, his muscles tensing without his permission before he forced them to relax. It had been weeks since the slushying incident and he was still more wary than he would like of other people, namely jocks and Warblers. Part of him knew how foolish it was to expect another attack, but . . . well, he had consoled himself the same after the Sadie Hawkins' dance, and the Barter fires and rock-salt slushy had convinced him that sometimes it was easier to just be cautious and look the fool than blunder into another catastrophe.

Opening his eyes and gratefully taking in his empty surroundings, Blaine quickened his pace until he was standing in front of the heavy wooden doors. He braced himself for disappointment -- his last meeting with Jeff and Nick had not ended terribly well, after all -- and pushed them open.

He need not have worried as he saw Jeff and Nick sitting anxiously on two of the large chairs seated opposite each other near the windows. Jeff had his head in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees, Nick explaining something to him in a low voice. His hand gestures ceased the moment Jeff stiffened and looked up at Blaine; he was turning in his seat before Blaine had time to process that they were actually here.

"Blaine," Nick said, seemingly frozen in place. "Hi."

"Hi," Blaine echoed, taking a seat on the arm of one of the couches. It was an old habit that he hadn't shaken over time and, without any motivation to do so, felt no discomfort with it. "How are you?"

"We're okay," Jeff answered as Nick grappled soundlessly for words. "We'd be better with you, but. . . ." He shrugged one shoulder, the remorse clearly written in his face as he sat up straighter. "We're sorry," he blurted.

"So you've said."

"We mean it," Nick insisted fiercely, turning sharply in his seat to face Blaine full-on. "We've been thinking a lot about what happened . . . in the garage." The wince in his tone was plain; Blaine could have had his eyes closed and still clearly seen it written on his face. "It was stupid. Beyond stupid. And we just . . . we really want you to know that we would never have done it if we'd known what was in that slushy."

"Rock salt," Blaine filled in quietly.

Jeff's eyes widened almost comically at the admission while Nick blinked, clearly dazed. "Wait -- are you serious?"

"Do you think I was screaming for fun?" Blaine retorted, his voice remaining surprisingly neutral. He was proud of himself for not snapping at them. He hadn't agreed to come to this meeting to snap at them and, as a result, he knew that he would have to make some personal concessions: namely being willing to hear out their reactions, however absurd.

"We just . . . we thought it was rocks, maybe. Gravel," Jeff said, staring at him. "But rock salt?"

"Mmhm."

"I -- I don't even know what to say," Nick floundered.

"We told Barter," Jeff blurted. "About the slushying. And the Warblers."

Blaine's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "You told him?"

Jeff looked down at his hands, seemingly unable to meet Blaine's gaze as he nodded. "We . . . we know that what we did was really awful, Blaine, and we just . . . it wasn't worth it. Not when we had put you through that." He shuddered slightly.

"What did he say?" Blaine asked, reserving his sympathy and encouragement. He had been quick to trust them before, but he had never had a reason not to trust them before, and now things were different. Now he had memories of concrete and searing pain in his eyes and a brief, red-washed glimpse of Warblers retreating into the dark before reality retreated under a blanket of half-consciousness to aid in his assessments. Now he had reasons to be suspicious of them, to hold them first in doubt and later in trust.

Jeff and Nick exchanged a look before Nick sighed and spoke. "He said that he wasn't going to disband the Warblers or suspend us, even though we would have deserved it." He looked up at Blaine with imploring eyes, his hands wringing together helplessly. "I don't know what to do to convince you that we would never have agreed to any of it if we had known exactly what it was," he insisted. "Our reactions were just . . . irrational to the extreme."

"You wanted to slushy Kurt." Blaine let the words hang in the air for a moment, forcing them to acknowledge the heart of the matter. "Kurt, my boyfriend, who I care about more than anyone else."

"We thought it would make things better," Jeff said quietly.

Blaine barked a laugh, unable to help himself. "Better? How?"

"Sebastian might have backed off," Nick said with a little shrug. "He wanted retribution . . . and slushying Kurt seemed like a harmless way of getting it. We would have apologized either way," he insisted. "We just . . . panicked."

"You don't think Kurt panicked?" The two Warblers were silent, staring at Blaine as he stood up and paced back and forth, slowly, unhurried. "You don't think we were both terrified that night? Yet you were the ones who knew and could have stopped it. Kurt and I had no idea."

"We just . . . we thought it would be fixable."

"What? Our friendship?"

Both boys flinched slightly at the way Blaine said it -- flatly, ruthlessly, something that had been temporarily suspended and, as a result, given far less delicacy than before. "I trusted you two," he said, lowering his voice slightly to keep the pent-up anger at Sebastian from flaring. "I came here and thought I was safe. I came here and thought Kurt was safe. I never would have brought him back if I'd had any indication that he wouldn't be, and you two almost proved me wrong that night."

Jeff and Nick were silent for a long time, staring at Blaine in muted disbelief.

"We know we messed up," Nick said, adding belatedly, "Badly."

"And we wanted to apologize," Jeff finished. "For . . . everything. For not stopping Sebastian when we could have." He bowed his head slightly, acknowledging defeat.

Blaine eyed them both skeptically for a long moment before speaking. "What do you want me to say?" he asked quietly. "That I forgive you? That I'm not unhappy that you helped in a plot to nearly maim my boyfriend?"

Nick flinched again at the word maim while Jeff remained stoic, staring down at the floor in evident shame. "What do you want me to say?" Blaine repeated.

"We don't expect you to forgive us," Nick said at last, "but . . . we don't want to lose you as a friend, Blaine. Those two years. . . ." He shook his head and, despite their unpleasant circumstances, a fond smile touched his lips. "We miss you," he ended simply.

"A lot," Jeff added.

Blaine glanced between the two of them, slumped shoulders and slightly bowed heads clear signs of admission and defeat, before sighing heavily. Despite their school year gap of only a year, Blaine was almost three years older than Nick and two years older than Jeff. Their inability to speak only reinforced their youth in his mind; if he hadn't known better he might have thought he was simply talking to them about not attending a particular Warbler's practice for an unknown reason.

We're not Warblers anymore, Blaine reminded himself.

Once a Warbler always a Warbler, another voice retorted softly.

"Is there anything we can do? To make this better?" Nick tried. "I mean, I know we can't actually do anything about . . . the slushy." His cheeks pinked with embarrassment and regret as he said it, meeting Blaine's eyes again. They were sincere and open, pleading, begging with him to understand. To know that Nick would never have agreed if he had known the extent of the wrong he was committing in exchange for a minor misdemeanor. To see that he had no ill intentions towards Blaine -- or, consequently, Kurt -- and wished he could have gone back in time and stopped the incident from ever happening or, failing that, intercede in the chaos that followed.

"I'm sorry," he said again, lowering his eyes and clasping his hands in his laps. "I'm really, really sorry, Blaine."

"We're sorry," Jeff amended, looking at Blaine with the same fierce remorse as Nick.

Blaine waited until he too looked aside before striding forward. He didn't say anything for a long moment, almost feeling the tension between them, before he cleared his throat. "What you did was wrong," he said emphatically, letting the words sink in for a moment. Neither Jeff nor Nick spoke to contradict him, simply looking up at him in silent curiosity. "I'm not sure if I can forgive you for it." They shrank back -- subtly, just minor twitches that would have been missed by a less calculating eye -- but didn't move away at the revelation. "I might be able to forgive you as people," he finished quietly.

"So you . . . ?" Nick let the sentence trail off hopefully, standing up. This close, it gave Blaine a slight shock to realize that he was actually taller now. Jeff, of course, had been taller since the start, but Nick at least had always had seemed a little shorter. Things are changing, Blaine reminded himself. I won't even be here, a year from now.

"We only have a few months left," Blaine said. "I don't want to waste them hating you two for something that you wouldn't have done in cold blood."

Jeff stood up, too, and for a moment they stood awkwardly. Then Nick thrust out a hand and Blaine, without hesitating, reached out and shook it. Jeff nodded slightly, keeping his hands to himself as a tiny smile quirked his lips. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you," Nick echoed seriously.

Blaine inclined his head. You're welcome. Don't prove me wrong again.

"We won't," was all Jeff said.

* * *

"You won't believe who I met today," Kurt said, looking up from his papers to smile at Blaine as he entered his bedroom. "Well, you haven't actually met him, so -- hang on," he said, pausing to pick up his phone as it vibrated and laughing at the message before typing back a response.

Blaine said nothing, physically drained between the drive to Dalton and back in the course of a single afternoon. Not to mention the encounter with Jeff and Nick. He still wasn't sure if he would classify it as a successful meeting: while he had come to the realization that he could at least move on from the incident, he couldn't forget it, couldn't forgive it. Wondering if it would impede his ability to sustain a friendship with them in the future, he tilted his head at Kurt curiously as he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for his response.

"It's just this new guy," Kurt said, setting his phone back on the desk before twirling around to face Blaine. His expression sobered as he took in Blaine's face. "Hey, what's wrong? Didn't go well?"

"No, it went fine," Blaine said, toeing off his shoes so he could flop back onto the bed. "Great, actually."

"You don't sound like it," Kurt pointed out, the noise of him getting up preceding the slight dip in the bed as he sat on it. "What happened?"

Blaine wasn't even fully conscious of speaking, words tumbling from his mouth as he explained that he wanted to forgive them but he just . . . couldn't. He had trusted them, they had been his friends, and that separated him from the other incidents that had happened because he had never thought he'd had anything to fear from them.

"I just don't know what to do," he finished quietly.

Kurt was silent for a moment, lying on his side beside him and trailing his fingers lightly up and down his arm. "Give it time?" he suggested.

Blaine turned his head slightly to look at him, reaching up to squeeze his hand where it had paused on his forearm. "I'll try," was all he said. "How was the music store?"

Kurt smiled and started rambling about how he had compiled a list of selections he wanted to use for his NYADA portfolio. The bright note in his voice was infectious; Blaine found himself smiling back at him as he listened, a quizzical frown furrowing his brow as Kurt's phone vibrated again and he scrambled to reach it. "Who's that?" he asked, because Kurt wasn't usually that eager to answer Rachel or Mercedes.

"It's no one," Kurt said dismissively. "Just a friend."

Blaine frowned a little but didn't say anything as Kurt laid down beside him again. Okay.

"So, how are the Prom plans going?" he asked, changing the topic.


	61. Chapter 61

Kurt stood on the precipice of a new era.

He tried to breathe normally, keeping his shoulders straight and his gaze focused ahead as he approached the figure standing in the middle of the auditorium. Instinct told him to wait and so he paused about five rows back, waiting for some indication that he was welcome. Stillness and silence pervaded until the figure tilted her head to one side infinitesimally, unspoken permission granted.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," the woman greeted, surveying the stage with an air of dignity. "I have been expecting you."

"I know." The words were softer than Kurt had thought they would be but he wasn't deterred. He advanced until he was level with her row, staring across the aisle at her broad, unmoving form. She was not large in the sense that she would topple tables in an unseemly display of clumsiness; rather, she carried an air of such security about her that even the most kingly men would hesitate to approach halfheartedly.

For a moment, Kurt was certain that he stopped breathing. He hovered at the end of the aisle and, after receiving another barely perceptible head-tilt as permission, walked until he reached the front of the room.

The McKinley high stage was empty, the lights dimmed accordingly. Even the skeleton crew of maintenance had the evening off. There were, of course, other people at the school, firmly entrenched in prom preparations. It had taken Kurt the better part of three days to organize the theme -- lights -- and he was anxious to see how the students appointed to putting his plans into action handled the task.

Figgins had assured him that the prom committee was competent and more than willing to obey his suggestions. Kurt had had his doubts initially when he saw the crew he was working with. Nevertheless, their enthusiasm and receptiveness to his ideas were encouraging, and the fact that they were willing to stay after school hours to ensure that the prom was as spectacular as he hoped it would be was a good sign.

Of course, while he wanted to be there to supervise every step of the process, ready to be a critical eye where necessary, he knew that his meeting with Carmen Tibideaux was quintessential to his future, and turning down an invitation to meet the dean of the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts in private was worse than upending the president's table at his own personal banquet.

"I have seen your audition video," Tibideaux said in the same commanding tone as before. It drew all eyes and ears to her. Instinctively, Kurt knew that even if the theater had been filled with a mob ready to declare war on itself, he would have still heard that smooth, almost soft voice in the midst of it. It was a voice that could tell kings to stand down and step aside for a moment. "It was most impressive."

"Thank you," Kurt replied. It seemed to rude to say nothing and impossible to say more; her gaze was hawk-like as she watched him.

"NYADA only grants admittance to twenty new students each year," she went on. "We are extremely selective and will only allow the best students entrance."

A small smile quirked Kurt's lips in spite of his silent promise to remain neutral and respectful.

"That being said, I have come here for a very specific purpose." Kurt's heart skipped a beat as apprehension flooded him. It didn't matter that it was irrational: he still experienced a moment of terror that she was about to tell him that he had not, in fact, been accepted into the program. That the letter had been sent to the wrong recipient when it was meant for Rachel or someone else more worthy of the school. He could feel the breath catch in his throat, suddenly grateful that he was too far away for Carmen to see the way his hands were trembling. He didn't want to give her the impression that he was terrified, even though he knew that she could see it, somehow.

"I'm not here to revoke your acceptance," she promised, sensing his unease. Kurt's shoulders relaxed a little, tensing the moment she began speaking again. "I'm here to give you some advice."

Kurt's eyebrows arched upwards a little.

"Most students enter NYADA with certain expectations," she elaborated, riffling through some papers spread out before her. "Namely, that we will make them into Broadway stars, Hollywood performers, even internally-known actors." Even from that distance, her gaze was piercing as she appraised him. "I suspect you have similar ambitions?"

Kurt hesitated. Part of him wanted to nod, another part was reluctant to show any form of compliance. He wasn't sure what point she wished to make, so he refrained from commenting at all. A small smile touched the edges of her lips, the barest hint of acknowledgment.

"Very well. You would not be the first."

"I want to study fashion," Kurt added softly, compelled to say it as Tibideaux looked at him expectantly. "Not as my major," he hastened to reassure, "but . . . as a minor, maybe."

"We encourage our students to pursue different interests," Tibideaux said, nodding slightly. "One cannot rely upon the performance industry alone to sustain a career from the start. It takes years of trial and error before any one actor or singer can successfully break free from the mold, however talented he or she appears from the start." Her gaze was leveled at him and he stared back fearlessly, accepting the inevitability of rejection and hardship. "Am I correct in assuming that you know this?"

"I do," Kurt confirmed.

"Good."

There was a pause during which Tibideaux diverted her attention solely to her papers. Kurt waited patiently for her to continue, not moving from his place at the center of the floor. He knew that he could ask what she was doing and, if she was feeling generous, she might even answer, but reputation preceded Carmen Tibideaux wherever she traveled, and he knew better than to interrupt her when she was busy with some task.

At last, just when he was convinced that the only word he would receive from her was a dismissal, she spoke. "I look forward to taking you into my tutelage, Kurt Hummel. Having seen your audition and reviewed your application, I am encouraged that you will fit well within NYADA's academia.

"However, I caution you not to become too dependent on our instruction, as some students before you have."

Kurt's eyebrows both lifted this time, his neutral expression wavering a little in surprise.

"Perhaps the greatest gift a person can have is raw talent," Tibideaux explained, looking at him seriously, "yet it requires careful tuning to be successful in the industry. Immerse yourself too completely in the rules we set before you, and you may find that talent chipping away in larger portions than you are willing to surrender. Many an auspicious young man or woman has walked through our doors without heeding this warning and suffered grievously because of it. I would not want you to join their ranks."

She gave him a meaningful look and Kurt felt the remainder of his apprehension drain from his shoulders. I will be open-minded to instruction, he affirmed silently, but I won't lose myself completely in the process.

Tibideaux inclined her head slightly and stood, gathering her papers as she did so in one smooth movement. "I look forward to seeing you this fall," was all she said. He nodded, watching her leave and breathing out deeply in relief once the doors clanged shut behind her.

He had been looking forward to the meeting with a sort of nervous excitement that had left him almost paralyzed that morning. Careful coaxing from Blaine had gotten him to emerge from his blanket cocoon, promises that it would be all right and no one would rip of his head buoying him. Having completed the interview -- if it could even be called that -- he could hardly believe how simple it was. Finding the nerve to send in his audition tape -- a lively version of Not the Boy Next Door -- had been more taxing than speaking with the woman who would become his mentor. If he had known beforehand that it would have been that simple, he would have arranged for the interview to take place far sooner to relieve some of his anxieties.

Hurrying out the door once he was sure that Carmen Tibideaux was well on her way, he pulled out his phone and texted Blaine. Meet me at the Lima Bean in twenty?

A pause, then: On my way.

* * *

"All right, come on, you're coming with me," Kurt said, grabbing Blaine's arm and dragging him down the opposite end of the street. Blaine had thought that they were going to the mall to browse through outfits for prom -- he fully anticipated a dramatic unveil of Kurt's outfit, at which point he would finally be free to pick a suitably complimentary one to match it -- when Kurt had turned abruptly on his heel and stopped. Without any actual protest about the shift, Blaine allowed himself to be led back down the street, angling sharply across the road as soon as they reached an intersection.

It took him a moment to recognize where they were going: the music store located on the corner of the street. He winced a little involuntarily as he recalled declining Kurt's offer to go with him the first time, wondering if this would somehow be the recompense Kurt sought in return. Most of Kurt's hobbies and interests were fairly compatible with Blaine's own, but there were a few -- namely, shopping and skin care -- that only just qualified as an 'interest' for Blaine. He wouldn't go out of his way for either and, if given the choice, likely wouldn't even remember at all until it became a necessity.

So, really, being able to skip out on some form of shopping -- even if it was for prom, something that he had been looking forward to knowing more about -- he was content to follow with Kurt's new plan.

They stopped about halfway down the block in front of a tidy music store named, in bold, curvy black letters hung from above the door, Between the Sheets. Blaine shifted from one foot to the next uneasily as he looked up at the sign briefly, noticing the way that Kurt neither advanced or retreated from the shop. It took several long moments, Kurt standing beside him while he resisted the urge to fidget expectantly.

At last, there was a flurry of movement behind the glass windows before a bespectacled, wide-eyed employee appeared at the door, a broad smile on his face. "Kurt Hummel!" he chirped, all but swooning as he reached out to shake his hand. "I didn't realize you'd be back so soon, I have the perfect song selections picked out for your portfolio!"

Kurt smiled and Blaine felt something twinge in his stomach as he watched the brief exchange, Kurt elaborating on his meeting with Carmen Tibideaux in the same lighthearted way that he had told Blaine. Even though he knew that everything had gone well -- better than expected, even -- there was something about the cheery way Kurt told Chandler that made an inexplicable surge of jealous rise in Blaine. It wasn't until their attention snapped to him that he broke out of the spell, blinking in surprise as Kurt introduced him.

"Blaine, this is Chandler--"

"Chandler Kiehl," Chandler demurred, "full-time employee at Between the Sheets, and musical assistant extraordinaire." He smiled, extending a hand which Blaine carefully shook. "You must be the boyfriend."

Blaine smiled a little as he looked at Kurt, who seemed to be watching the exchange carefully. "I am," he said at last. "Kurt's boyfriend."

"It's an honor to meet you," Chandler said, sounding genuinely pleased. "I don't know how you managed to snag such a catch," he added teasingly. "I'm jealous."

"I'm sure you'll find someone," Kurt broke in, a slight smile on his face. "So, what do you have for us today?"

"Are you compiling a portfolio, too?" Chandler asked, directing his full attention on Blaine. "You look like a tenor. We just got a new shipment of music stock in this morning, I'm sure I could find something unique for both of you."

"I don't need a portfolio."

"Oh." Chandler's expression looked briefly crestfallen before he turned back to Kurt and beamed. "So we meet again! How did the ones that I gave you before work out?"

"They were great," Kurt bubbled. "I'm kind of surprised I didn't think of them before, actually. It would have helped for landing a few solos in Glee club." There was a wry tone to his voice that Blaine recognized as part-jest, part-hurt. He half-wanted to tell Kurt that he would be willing to talk with Schuester to arrange for him to have more solos. The one-sidedness of the club had not escaped his observation and, while he agreed wholeheartedly that Kurt was a spectacular singer and deserved the spotlight, he knew that Kurt would never let him petition for it on his behalf.

I want to earn it, was all he'd said. Whatever it takes.

Blaine bit his lip to keep quiet as he followed Kurt and Chandler inside the store. He didn't miss the way Chandler put his hand on Kurt's wrist whenever he talked, Kurt laughing freely at his jokes, regardless of how far they went over Blaine's head. He felt slightly awkward standing there, slightly to the left of and behind Kurt as Chandler rattled off some of the newer names that had come in. There was something about his energy and enthusiasm that was both infectious and oddly disconcerting; Blaine couldn't help but notice how happy Kurt seemed with Chandler, carefree and expressive.

When was the last time he smiled at you like that? a snide voice pointed out as he watched Kurt's eyes crinkle up at the corners at something Chandler had said.

Blaine chose to ignore the voice, instead offering as much input as he could whenever possible. Chandler took it all in stride, nodding and bobbing along the store, eager to please. Somehow he managed to be polite to the other customers while simultaneously keeping his full attention on Kurt. How he managed the feat, Blaine didn't know.

Of course you do, his conscience chided. He spent most of his time thinking about Kurt and still managed to converse with and entertain other people. Something about the fact that Chandler was so invested in Kurt made Blaine tense, a little edgier than he would have been around Mike or Puck or anyone, really.

He likes Kurt.

He's just a friend, Blaine retorted, rolling his eyes internally and keeping a slight smile on his face when Chandler showed him pictures of his own dream school in New York. Without any particular reason for it Blaine found himself wanting to tell Chandler that Kurt was taken and not available for dating any time soon.

Stop it.

Startling when Kurt bumped shoulders with him lightly, he blinked at him in surprise. "You're being quiet," Kurt teased. Then, dropping his voice to a whisper as Chandler disappeared to retrieve some older album or another: "What do you think?"

I don't like him, was Blaine's first thought. "Of what?" he deferred.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Phantom of the Opera."

Oh.

"Interesting," Blaine stalled, momentarily wrong-footed by the shift.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked, eying him with something akin to concern. "You're acting different."

"Different?" Blaine repeated, unable to help the slightly affronted note in his voice.

"Like that," Kurt said at once.

Blaine sighed. "It's nothing."

Kurt's eyebrows arched as he said nothing.

"It's nothing important," Blaine amended.

"It's Chandler, isn't it?" Kurt said smoothly, examining a stack of music sheets without looking up.

Blaine deflated a little. "That obvious?"

"Mmhm." Kurt sifted through the music for a moment, absorbed in his consideration, before turning to face Blaine full on, looking at him seriously.

"Do you remember what you said about Sebastian?" he asked quietly. "After . . . we went to Scandals."

Blaine's cheeks pinked involuntarily at the memory, his gaze drawn to the floor as he tried to think of a sensitive way to respond. The last thing he wanted to do was ignite Kurt's frustration when he was already teetering on the edge of being ridiculously and inexplicably frustrated himself. It wasn't like Chandler had walked in and asked Kurt to be his boyfriend; Kurt had brought him here, and Chandler had been nothing but polite, anyway. Where Sebastian tied into any of it . . . .

"He's not important to me," Blaine said suddenly. "Sebastian. I said that ... he wasn't important to me. He didn't mean anything to me." Blaine looked up at Kurt, earnest and anxious. "Kurt--"

"Chandler is nothing but a friend," Kurt interrupted smoothly. "Okay?"

Blaine swallowed slightly, looking at him, before Kurt reached out and gave his hand a brief squeeze. "You're my boyfriend," he insisted. "Not Chandler."

"Your boyfriend," Blaine repeated softly. A small smile touched his lips as Kurt smiled back, turning away just as Chandler re-emerged from the back room, arms loaded with a stack of books.

"All right, guys," Chandler said, reminding Blaine uncannily of Will Schuester, "you will not believe what I just found -- the new Patti LuPone books!"

* * *

"Can you believe that it's been a year?" Blaine murmured on the night before prom, nuzzling the back of Kurt's neck as they stood together outside.

Kurt had elected to a prom design that accommodated both the possibility of foul weather as well as license to stretch his creative wings: a prom that was divided into two segments, an indoor and an outdoor element. The indoor theme was fairly typical with black-and-white décor, including balloons tastefully arranged according to Kurt's specifications (which he had painstakingly laid out for the prom committee over the course of the past two weeks) and tables set up with the typical refreshments and seating available for those wishing to mingle. Just looking around the gymnasium transformed into a pseudo-ballroom made Kurt's heart swell with pride. There was something indefinably satisfying about having so much say in the makings of this year's prom; something that was bold and new and reassuring after last year's near-catastrophe.

Even as he stood in the chill evening air with Blaine at his back and a dozen students milling about eager to fulfill his final wishes, Kurt could clearly picture the disastrous results of last year's prom queen election. He half-wanted to banish the thought from his mind, to permanently forget what had happened when the student body decided to unite against him. Before, it had been Karofsky, Azimio, and a handful of other jocks that seemed determined to make his life a living hell; after the vote had been cast, he had realized that it had been a substantial portion of the student body that had wanted to see him humiliated and defeated. The idea that so many people could have hated him, could have enjoyed his embarrassment and helplessness enough to vote him as prom queen, was a thought that had been almost as painful as the title itself.

Prom Queen, he reflected, half-fondly, half-bitterly. He still had the crown, safely hidden away in a small corner of his closet back in his bedroom. Part of him was convinced that he should have disposed of it as soon as possible, that he should have returned it to the people that had wanted to see him crowned in the first place. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but hold onto the trophy. It was a keepsake and, in a strange way, a badge of honor. It was a symbol of his strength, a testament to the time when he had to fight for every shred of respect and dignity that should have been innately given.

It was a memento of the night when he had finally been able to dance at his junior prom with another boy.

Not just anyone, either, Kurt amended, a wry smile curling his lips as he tilted his head a little to look at Blaine's face. Two years ago he would have taken even Sam's acquaintanceship to being completely alone; now he couldn't fathom life without Blaine. In every way, Blaine was his best friend, his mentor, and, he hoped, soon-to-be lover. Somehow they had largely avoided the topic of full-blown sex ever since they had delved into slightly more adventurous waters. Part of it, Kurt reasoned, was still a combination of hurt over the Scandals' incident and uncertainty about what would happen to them, their comfort with each other once they took that next step. Even the steps that they had taken since -- which, Kurt could admit, were still tame enough that he could think about without blushing even though the thought of his dad or Carole catching on was mortifying -- were still relatively innocent.

With Blaine's warmth and weight pressed against his back, Kurt couldn't help but briefly entertain what it would be like to go all the way.

Despite his best efforts to remain blissfully ignorant of the fact, he knew that Finn and Rachel were no longer virgins. After spending several cleansing hours in front of his mirror rubbing enough moisturizer into his skin to last a month, he had emerged from his room calmer and significantly less disturbed by the idea. It wasn't that the fact that they were having sex bothered him, per se; he just didn't want to have any mental images of Rachel and Finn being intimate with each other in his head.

Which effectively doused any thoughts of him and Blaine being intimate, he thought sourly, gently pulling away from Blaine's hold to correct one of the prom committee members as he attempted to hang a roll of streamers above another set.

At first glance, everything appeared to be in sync with the monochromatic scheme Kurt had designed for the indoor portion of the night; black and white motifs dominated the scene in the courtyard, extending partially towards a vacated lacrosse field. Principal Figgins had been wary of his decision to remove the offices of prom king and queen but eager to surrender all preparations to Kurt's expertise. As long as he worked within the school's prom budget (which was only slightly less than Kurt's typical weekend wardrobe allowance), he was permitted to do just about anything he wanted with the décor. It was a free pass that Kurt took advantage of, spending hours at a time sitting at his vanity constructing the color schemes he wanted.

To the inexperienced eye (which, he had to admit, included Blaine and his dad for a fair portion of the planning), it appeared excessive to be coordinating exactly where to position all of the black and white streamers, balloons, chairs, et cetera. Even Rachel had eyed him doubtfully when she first saw his intentions, clearly unconvinced that his dull palette would allow for much creativity with dresses.

Trust me, he had reassured all who had asked, refusing to go into the details until he had finished the blueprints and submitted them to the prom committee for approval. They were on board the minute he had strode into the room with the papers in hand, seated in the front row of an empty classroom with hands clasped in front of them and earnest gazes centered solely upon him. It had taken two hours in that room to explain to them why his theme was not merely 'black and white,' but instead a plethora of colors that were artfully disguised within the decorations.

I want prom to highlight the best of this year, he had finished simply, so the theme itself is 'light.'

Thus, while the physical structures erected around the courtyard and gymnasium were fairly straightforward and non-bedazzling (not to mention surprisingly inexpensiveness), as soon as the lights positioned strategically near corners, around bends, and underneath larger structures were brought into the mixture, the result was breathtaking. He had even recruited Artie's assistance in order to create a specific time sequence during which the lights would shine, keyed to match the sunset and, during the evening itself, the more brilliant illumination of the stars.

It was a tactic that he had seen used countless times during performances, even thrown into Vocal Adrenaline routines on occasion. Done well, the subtle transition from bright and dazzling to pale and velvet was hypnotizing. Despite his inherent dislike of their foremost show choir competitor, Kurt couldn't help but appreciate their ability to use all their resources. All he had needed was a simple backdrop that would allow his schemes to shine. While white would bring out the colors best and capitalize on their intensity, black off-set everything, creating edges and smoothness and curves that were otherwise nonexistent.

"It looks amazing," Blaine said softly, interrupting his thoughts for the second time in as many minutes. Kurt smiled a little; he still hadn't seen the full effect of the changing color scheme, even if Kurt had allowed him to view this dress-rehearsal of sorts. The entire work was too large to construct over the course of a single day, and so Figgins had given them permission to start preparations then and finish them tomorrow. Kurt only hoped the elements would remain on their side, slightly disconcerted by a forecast of rain but not overly worried. He had instructed the gymnasium to be put through its entire preparation routine while tentatively ordering the outdoor portion to be assembled. It was done in bits and pieces, the lights left for the end in case the weather broke prematurely. It held but Kurt, not wanting to tempt fate, had told the prom committee to leave them indoors until the next day.

"It does, doesn't it?" he asked, indulging himself for a moment. "I can't believe it actually came together."

"Well, you did spend two weeks on it," Blaine mused. "I've seen you put together whole outfits from scratch in less than an hour. Have you ever considered a career in interior designing? Or maybe just fashion in general?"

Kurt paused in adjusting one of the streamers above himself absentmindedly. "I have," he said softly, "but I still think my heart is more set on performing."

Blaine nodded, expecting the answer, but before he could say anything Kurt added, "I told Carmen Tibideaux that I wanted to minor in fashion."

Both of Blaine's eyebrows arched slightly, not in disbelief or disapproval, just mild surprise. "How did she respond?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged a little, nonplussed. "Better than I expected," he admitted, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder. "She said that it would be . . . wise to not put all my eggs in one basket, so to speak."

Blaine nodded, seemingly expecting this as well. "I see," was all he said.

A moment passed in silence before Kurt asked on a whim, "What are you going to study?"

"I'm not really sure yet," Blaine hedged, tracing the edge of a table absentmindedly. "Some form of performance is a given, but beyond that? I don't know." He shrugged, looking skyward as a rumble of thunder sounded. He smiled a little, pulling his hand back. "Think we should head back?"

"Where?" Kurt asked reflexively.

Blaine looked skyward before surveying the small pool of students still milling around the edges of the courtyard. "Anywhere," he said simply.

* * *

"No kilt?" Blaine asked, a fond smile on his lips as he leaned back against the door jamb, watching Kurt spin slowly in front of his mirror, looking at his backside critically. He jumped a little at the interruption, relaxing when he saw who it was. "I like the hat," Blaine continued, stepping inside the room and playfully tapping the edge of Kurt's top hat. "It's nice."

"Thank you." Kurt's smile was warm and broad as he looked in the mirror, his brow creasing with a brief twinge of anxiety as he surveyed his corsage.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, noticing the frown and hooking his chin over Kurt's shoulder carefully, leaning up on tiptoe so he could wrap his arms around Kurt's waist comfortably.

"Did I -- you don't think it's bad that I removed prom king and queen from the ballot this year, do you?"

Blaine was silent for a moment, surprised by the question. Even though he had been stunned when Kurt first told him that he wanted to petition to have the offices removed (which essentially meant going to Principal Figgins for approval), he hadn't perceived any doubt in Kurt that it was the wrong move. Since Kurt's response the previous year had been nothing short of amazing, Blaine knew that he had no right to expect him to tolerate the possibility that another incident could happen. Still, to see the flicker of doubt on Kurt's face as he bit his lips and rubbed his hands together briefly was enough to show Blaine that he was still uneasy about the whole thing.

"I think," Blaine said, deliberately drawing the words out as he looked at Kurt in the mirror, "that you made the right choice. And that you look amazing." He tilted his head a little to press a gentle kiss to Kurt's neck, relishing the small smile that spread across his boyfriend's face in return.

"You would say that no matter what I was wearing," Kurt said in a light, challenging tone, turning in his arms to face him, hooking them around Blaine's shoulders.

Blaine tilted his head a little to concede the point, his foot nudging the door shut behind him. Kurt's eyes didn't waver from his own, not even paying the now-closed door a second glance. "I would say that even if you weren't wearing anything at all," he retorted softly.

Kurt giggled. "You're ridiculous," he said, tapping Blaine's nose fondly in rebuke. "And we have a date this evening, remember?"

"Sure we couldn't skip it?" Blaine asked, suddenly feeling that staying in Kurt's room while his parents were out for the evening sounded like a lovely plan. Hours of free time to just do whatever they wanted without fear of interruption was more appealing than attending their senior prom with hundreds of other students that probably wouldn't care either way if they attended. Leaning in to kiss Kurt's neck lightly, he felt rather than heard the gentle intake of breath, surprise and encouragement rolled into one.

"We can't," Kurt said at last, his voice gentle but firm as he pushed Blaine's shoulders back. Blaine reluctantly stepped back, his lips curving downward in a pout as he looked up at Kurt. "Don't do that," Kurt chided, reaching up to brush his thumb over Blaine's lip. Blaine gently caught it between his teeth, smiling at Kurt even when the latter rolled his eyes and pulled away. "Goof," he mumbled, leaning down to kiss him briefly. Blaine edged closer, relaxed and calm and happy, chasing Kurt's lips slightly when he turned his head away.

"We have a date," Kurt insisted, soft and serious.

"I know," Blaine replied in the same tone.

"We can't miss it."

"We could."

"Blaine."

"All right, all right." Blaine conceded defeat by taking a few steps back, letting Kurt smooth his jacket down while he himself donned his own corsage. He smiled at the pale pink rose, adjusting its petals carefully.

"Ready?"

Blaine looked up at Kurt and stole a brief kiss. "Ready."

They arrived at McKinley a half hour later, Blaine parking close to the doors. He was fidgeting a little even as he stepped out of his Jeep, ambling over to Kurt's side of the car and taking his hand immediately. He knew that it was silly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling of being watched, being cast into a dangerous situation that he had no idea how to combat. It was all in his head, of course, but the images were still sharp enough that it didn't take much to conjure the scene with the three seniors that had beat the crap out of him and his date, four years ago, lurking in corners and ready to finish off what they had started. Only then it had been someone that Blaine had only known for a short time, a friend that he cared about without sharing any deep romantic feelings for. He felt almost breathless with anxiety when he thought about anything like that happening to Kurt; the mere thought that Karofsky had almost harmed him in the locker room (beyond stealing a kiss, that was) still made Blaine hate himself for advising courage, courage, courage so recklessly.

"Hey." Kurt's voice broke through his thoughts, drawing him back to the present as his fingers slipped into Blaine's own, warm and reassuring. "Everything's going to be fine."

"I know," Blaine replied. It sounded feeble to his own ears.

The hallways were already barren, but the noise from within the gymnasium signaled that they had been preceded by a fair portion of the student body. Almost immediately, Blaine paused in the threshold, his breath thoroughly taken away by the spectacle before him.

They had chosen to arrive shortly after sundown, the early dusk creating violet shadows against the landscape. Within, gold lights and mellow hues of purple accented the scene, creating a dazzling combination that melded seamlessly into the decorations Kurt had already assembled. It was a subtle mixture, tastefully kept to a level that was neither glaringly bright nor uncomfortably subdued. The doors were wide open to the courtyard where it was clear other students where mingling. The DJ, stationed in the gymnasium, was already making good work of his resources, keeping everyone entertained while the glee club waited on stand-by to take the mic.

"Kurt, it looks . . . ."

That was as far as Blaine got before Rachel swooped in and enveloped Kurt in a hug, beaming at him. "It looks incredible," she finished, pinching his cheeks fondly and ignoring his slight scowl at the gesture, batting her hands away. "And my, don't you two look handsome," she cooed, stepping back to look at them. "Kurt, Blaine." She beamed, stepping forward to give them both quick hugs. "You better sing with me later!" she challenged. "The mike's open after eleven."

"Oh, no, no, no, no," Kurt insisted. "I'm here to enjoy my evening, not sing karaoke."

"You're singing with me," Rachel countered with a grin. "This is our last chance to perform together at McKinley, Kurt! And that includes you, Blaine," she added, rounding on him.

Blaine blinked. "I don't think--"

"Later!" Rachel disappeared behind a throng of attendees, leaving Kurt shaking his head slightly in vague bemusement.

"I don't know what to do with her," he admitted.

"Accept and move on?" Blaine tried, smiling as he looked around. "Do you think Puck spiked the punch yet?"

"I don't know," Kurt admitted, "why?"

Blaine said nothing, scooping up a glass and chugging it down without a word. Kurt lifted an eyebrow in question. "I'm thirsty," Blaine answered lamely.

"After those three coffees you drank earlier?" Kurt countered, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Blaine's shoulders lightly. He stiffened slightly, his gaze darting around involuntarily as he looked around at the other couples. He relaxed infinitesimally when he saw that none of them were paying Kurt and he a second glance, perhaps briefly surprised but nothing more by the two's proximity. "None of them care," Kurt assured, his voice pitched to that low and soothing tone that Blaine hadn't even known he was capable of doing before he'd started dating him. It was lulling, peaceful, not deep in the sense that it made him sound gruff but sincere. "They can't touch us, remember?"

Blaine nodded, gingerly setting his glass on the table as he wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist. A few more sideways glances but nothing more, some of the tension in his back evaporating as Kurt's hands wandered to his shoulders, kneading at the muscles there gently. They swayed more than danced, somehow enveloped within a constantly shifting sea of people that seemed utterly oblivious to their presence. For once, Blaine had never been happier to be ignored, and as he tucked his head against Kurt's shoulder and nuzzled the hollow of his throat, he couldn't recall a time when he'd felt more protected or cared for.

And maybe Puck had spiked the punch, a sleepy, satisfied feeling settling in his gut temporarily before the caffeine took over once more. Either way, Blaine was happy and Kurt was right there, and that was all that mattered.

By the time they found themselves seated at a table in the courtyard with Mike, Tina, Artie, and Brittany, sharing jokes and stories and drinking punch haphazardly, Blaine was finally feeling comfortable with the event. No one had created any fuss over them and there was no sign of trouble on the horizon from anyone. As far as everyone else was concerned, Blaine and Kurt were just another couple enjoying the evening. Blaine smiled a little more warmly at the thought, surveying his friends and reflecting on just how lucky he was.

Lucky enough to be at this point where they had Nationals in less than a week and graduation after that to look forward to. Four years ago, he had been lucky enough to still be alive and able to heal; now he had college and a future with his boyfriend to consider. Of course, he knew, they weren't going to the same college (something that Kurt still remained ambivalent about, although Blaine was hopeful that maybe he wasn't too disappointed or upset), and there was always the chance that they would meet new people even more attractive to them (Chandler, Blaine thought, before pushing the thought aside as he remembered what Kurt had said). He didn't even know whether his parents would welcome him home if he decided to return.

Carole and Burt had already extended their invitation to him to stay at their house 'as long as he needed.' He didn't know whether he needed the warmth of the Hummel-Hudson family to sustain him as much as he needed Kurt in that moment. His father was at least attempting to make amends -- there were periodic emails updates about filing in the first payments for his college tuition and advice to pursue what he excelled and enjoying -- and his mother seemed to be on the right track as well. It would be hard to say without physically confronting them about it -- texts and emails could only convey so much, and even phone calls were sporadic at best -- but Blaine was almost as reluctant to see them as they were to see him.

It has to change, he thought, leaning against Kurt's side while the latter rattled off some story to Marcus and Mercedes. He gesticulated airily, his free arm anchoring Blaine to his side companionably. Blaine didn't mind, only humming softly in approval whenever his hand reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, the gentle scritch-scritch motion almost lulling him to sleep despite the noise and the people and the lights.

The lights were almost surreal to behold. At first, they seemed to war with the streamers and chairs and balloon, but as the evening progressed and darkened everything, it became clear that even the appearance of a clash was intentional. It blended smoothly into twilight, colors fading into deeper, darker, richer shades while somehow maintaining their luminescence. Blaine had no conscious recollection of the moment when indigos and scarlets became pale blues and light reds, but the transition was stunning to behold.

"I want you to sing with me now," Rachel said, sounding far away and unimportant compared to Kurt beside him. To Blaine's surprise, Kurt rose from his seat without protest, dragging him along with him.

"It'll be fun," Kurt whispered as he nudged him towards the stage. Blaine became aware of a more tangible reality as he claimed one of the mikes and listened to the first notes being strummed out on a guitar. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling familiar and content with the musical accompaniment as the first notes rose in the air.

Rachel began, her voice lilting and clear, advancing towards the edge of the stage and taking spotlight. Even the stark white of it seemed coordinated, planned in accordance with the other lights dancing around the edges of everything. As Blaine watched, mesmerized, Kurt joined in on one of the bridges, his voice high and clear and stunning.

"I hope you know, I hope you know . . . that this has nothing to do with you. It's personal, myself and I . . . we've got some straightenin' out to do."

Blaine smiled a little in spite of himself before catching the look that Kurt sent him, joining in on the chorus without thought.

It seemed oddly fitting, he thought, even if he couldn't exactly say that he fell in the category of a 'big girl.' It was all about moving on, leaving people and places behind and being expected to be stronger in order to confront the world. And maybe they weren't all as resilient as they seemed, maybe they would fall apart sometimes and fail to see the light at the end, but there was still that rhythm, that melody underneath, that security blanket that promised someone would be there even if it wasn't okay.

They were leaving, but it wasn't permanent. It would be frightening and overwhelming at first, but it wouldn't be difficult forever. It would be long and slow and seemingly impossible at times, but it would be surmountable in the end.

Blaine closed both hands around the mike as he sang, looking straight at Kurt as he ran through the chorus one last time, Rachel echoing him faintly in a faraway world.

"And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket, but I gotta get a move on with my life. It's time to be a big girl now . . . and big girls don't cry."

Even as the guitar strummed through the last few notes and a few whoops accompanied the applause, Blaine had eyes only for Kurt, noticing that they were shining a little with unshed tears. Thank you, he said without words. Blaine inclined his head a tiny bit even as he surrendered the mike, not fully aware of Santana and Quinn stepping onto the stage to take over.

It wasn't until they were outside, the air cold now that it was later in the evening but still comfortable under the twined illumination of stars and artificial lights, before Blaine realized that the prom was nearly at an end. He and Kurt had had their prom picture taken together -- tastefully done, jaunty poses that suggested a slightly higher inebriation level on the punch than either cared to acknowledge -- and were now standing apart and away from the crowds.

"No regrets?" Blaine asked, looking around, his arms around Kurt's waist.

Kurt smiled, leaned down, and kissed him. "No regrets," he breathed.


	62. Chapter 62

Kurt had few delusions about New York. He knew that competing with the likes of Rachel Berry to obtain one of the most prized seats in the musical world, a coveted NYADA slot, had been only one stepping stone in the path to glory. He had never aspired to be anything less than memorable, and if his original ideas of having his name up in lights had been fine tuned to include the ability to captivate an audience with breath-taking numbers, then he was pleased with his overall progress.

It would not be an easy road. There would be no road signs marking his destination, no helpful GPS of the fashion or musical world to helpfully suggest a right turn. He would be on his own in almost every regard, despite what NYADA's bold predecessors proclaimed, prophesying greatness for the fledgling artists that they magnanimously took under their wings. (The more he browsed the blogs former and current students had written about the Academy, the more thoroughly convinced Kurt was that he was truly, deeply, irrevocably out of his league -- and in love.)

NYADA was only the first step, the gateway drug to fame and fortune. Those that were lost in its splendor and intoxicated by their own dreams of grandeur quickly fell to a hard, grueling reality brought upon by its unforgiving teachers. The professors and instructors employed under the NYADA banner seemed benign in comparison to the true, the great teacher: time. Persistence, determination, will, experience, drive, success. It all came down to one thing, and one thing only: a willingness and an utter devotion to do something great, regardless of all that trials and setbacks that stood between him and his goal.

Kurt wanted his name up in lights. He wanted to be the premiere performance at a Broadway show that more than a handful of devotees would attend. He wanted to be the artist that drew in full houses. He wanted to be the performer whose legacy would be carried on in the awed whispers of the patrons of the art world long after his own performances had ceased. He wanted it all, and he knew that, in the end, there was only one place where he could thrive.

New York.

"Daydreaming again?"

Kurt blinked, reality settling heavily over him as red lockers and white hallways filled his vision again. He turned from his own open locker and lifted a single quizzical eyebrow in Blaine's direction, taking in his appearance. From head to toe he was clad in the same almost jarring red-and-white combo, thigh-hugging pants tapering down into stark white sneakers.

"Why are you wearing a Cheerios' uniform?" were the first words out of Kurt's mouth, once some of the white noise ringing in his ears had died down.

"I'm helping Coach Sylvester out with some of her routines because one of the male cheerleaders broke his ankle during practice," Blaine explained with a long-suffering sigh.

"Why would she recruit you?" Blaine's wounded, almost offended look prompted him to add, "Not that you're not a good candidate, I mean, you look great and you box so your upper body strength has to be pretty close to her standards already and it's a good fit - "

"Kurt." Blaine's goofy grin was back. "You're adorable." He leaned forward and pecked Kurt's lips without another word. Kurt's cheeks flamed as he glanced around quickly. While the hallways seemed no less busy than usual -- the general mill of students helped him lose himself in his own thoughts -- there was a distinct lack of jeering comments from any of the jocks. It took Kurt a moment to realize that there weren't any jocks in sight. He frowned.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Sue has surveillance cameras installed all over the school. And since she's chaperoning the Glee club to Nationals, she can't let any of the jocks pick us off before we register or we'll be disqualified for not having enough numbers."

Kurt nodded slightly in assent. "But why jump ship so close to the competition?" he asked, eyeing Blaine's outfit -- perhaps a little more critically than necessary, taking particular note of his thigh-hugging pants.

"I'm not jumping ship, I'm a bargaining chip," Blaine said. At Kurt's blank look, he sighed again and tugged him forward. Kurt barely remembered to shut his locker as he was half-dragged, half-lead down the hallway. He hadn't been lying about Blaine's upper body strength -- ever since he had admitted to boxing after school some days to relieve frustration over Finn and, for a time, the majority of the New Directions' ignoring him, Blaine's strength had seemed all the more prominent to him -- and it was no surprise that he found himself almost stumbling to keep up in the first startled moments.

He quickly regained his bearings as Blaine hauled him into the auditorium, and suddenly it wasn't Blaine at all but Rachel standing in front of him, dressed resplendently in a lilac blue dress as she beamed, almost vibrating in place with her excitement.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" she said, hurrying across the auditorium and bounding on stage. Kurt blinked, startled, before looking around and gaping as he realized that they were back on the Gershwin stage. The Gershwin stage.

"It's amazing," he agreed softly, looking around and admiring. "It's -- wait." He frowned as he noticed a sign tacked on top of the doorway, approaching it slowly. For Rent. "Wait, why is it--"

The scene dissolved and for a moment Kurt was left in darkness before a hand rudely shoved him forward. "You're on in five," a voice quipped, ushering him past thick, heavy curtains hastily. Before he had breath to get two words out, he was on stage, standing directly in the spotlight. It was so intense that he feared for his own vision for a moment, blinded by the glare. He held up a hand to block some of it out, noticing the shadowy figures filling the seats of a crowd. An immense crowd.

A full house.

He opened his mouth to sing, a dark blue suit hugging his body, a microphone stationed directly in front of him. Nothing came to mind, however, and he closed his mouth even as the first discordant notes of a song he couldn't remember came to a grinding halt. The audience erupted in murmurs, shocked, disbelieving, horrified--

And suddenly he wished that he was back with that same audience, shrinking against their unseen gazes a thousand times over as Blaine writhed on the ground, his hands pressed to his face. Melted slushy dripped off his face like blood, dying the leather of his jacket a sickening shade of red as Kurt fell to his knees beside him, one hand resting on his hip as his other reflexively grasped at his shoulder. Let me help, let me see, please, please, please--

"Kurt?"

Kurt blinked slowly, heavily, and smiled wanly at the face hovering above his own. A puzzled frown furrowed his brow a moment later as his vision swam into focus and he recognized Blaine's worried expression, Sam's curious and Finn's anxious crowding into the mix.

"What's going on?" he asked, the words slurring midway from brain to mouth.

"He's sick," Mercedes said, sounding part worried, part disappointed as she sighed and leaned back against a plush chair.

"I'm not sick, I'm--" The world tilted sickeningly as Kurt tried to sit up; he sagged against Blaine instead as he collapsed midway, strong, supportive arms wrapping around his waist. He felt rather than saw Blaine settle his chin on top of his shoulder. The tenseness of his arms, however gentle, betrayed his anxiety underneath a demeanor of false calm. Still confused with the situation as a whole, Kurt felt almost relieved to have something grounding. He pet Blaine's arms with his fingertips, gently stroking the sparse hairs there. It seemed strange that Blaine's skin felt almost cool to the touch; Blaine was always warmer, a living space heater when it came to cuddling.

"He's sick," Mercedes repeated as though Kurt hadn't spoken. Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but Blaine shushed him gently before he could respond. Keeping a firm grasp on his dignity, already marred by Blaine's helpfulness, Kurt shut his mouth and did his best to focus on more than one person at a time. The New Directions had piled into a hotel room, all fourteen of them, Schuester and Sylvester included. Kurt winced as he realized that everyone was staring at him. He hadn't even known that they were there a few moments ago; everything felt heavy and strange as he tried to process what had happened.

* * *

 

It was the Friday before the competition and Kurt was exhausted. Physically, emotionally, in every way tired. It seemed doubly irrational in the midst of everyone's enthusiasm. Glee club rehearsals had taken a ruthless turn under Sue Sylvester's command, and yet none of the former 'whiners' (as Sue kindly reminded them twice every minute) had voiced a single complaint. They argued among each other companionably, punching shoulders and even threatening worse before Sue blew her whistle and order was indubitably restored.

Kurt's heart wasn't in it, though, as he walked through the steps alongside his fellow Glee clubbers. He wanted to go home and sleep for a month before waking up refreshed and ready to beat Vocal Adrenaline, once and for all. He wanted to share in the excitement and soak in every moment leading up to the competition, laughing and yelling and even crying in equal parts as they realized that this was it.

The last time that they would ever perform as a group. The last time that any of them would ever look across the stage and see one another, knowing that they had each other's backs and were willing to set aside personal rivalries and petty arguments in order to win.

They would come together as a team for the last time, and they would conquer. Three years of preparation had led to it. They were ready.

Yet all Kurt felt was heartsick.

He missed them already, he realized, watching with dull eyes as Puck, Sam, Finn, and Mike brawled on the floor, Schuester loudly telling them that they didn't have time for this while Santana egged them on and Tina made exasperated comments and Mercedes cheered alternately for the apparent winners. It took three sharp shrieks from Sue's whistle to break them up, Rachel pointedly ignoring all of them as she stared at a personal mirror and repeated her own mantra of how much of a star she was and that nothing would hold her back from this moment (until, of course, Sylvester started loudly berating all of them via blow horn until Schuester stepped forward and turned it off).

He recalled playfully demonstrating a few of the easier boxing moves to Sugar while Blaine stood off to one side chatting with Sam. Even though he had known that it meant nothing and that Blaine was his boyfriend, it still bothered him when Sam put his hand on Blaine's shoulder and squeezed it before dropping his hand and making some weird impression that made Blaine laugh. Sugar's unintentionally hard gut-punch had winded him enough to successfully distract him from the moment, however, and he'd spent the next two minutes wheezingly assuring Blaine and Sam in equal parts that he was fine while Sugar giggled and cried and apologized profusely.

Rachel had even shown him how to stretch his legs properly so the choreography wouldn't leave him sore and aching afterward. The others were attempting the same stretches with varying degrees of success; Finn had managed to reach his fingertips to his ankles before his face turned an interesting shade of red with exertion while Mike calmly folded himself in half. Kurt had had to tap out three time before he'd managed to reach the tips of his toes. After that, it was easier, and he'd realized that aside from a mild ache after the initial, unpracticed stretches, his flexibility had improved.

He'd felt almost ready that afternoon when Schuester finally clapped his hands to call their attention and close the rehearsal (before Sue loudly drowned him out via blow horn mid-congratulatory speech).

That night, Kurt had been restless, refusing to touch his coffee at the Lima Bean after school despite Blaine buying and sitting across from him drinking his own medium drip for the better part of an hour. He talked and tried to engage Kurt in his conversations, but Kurt had slipped back into his quiet, almost melancholy mood, and by the time they left, he knew that Blaine's silence should have tipped him off.

He didn't even bat an eyelash when Blaine offered to make the two hour drive back to Westerville in case Kurt needed some 'alone time.' Kurt had stared at him for exactly three seconds before stepping forward and kissing him against his bedroom door, and that had been the end of that conversation.

He hadn't slept that night, though, only listening to Blaine's soft, almost throaty breathing. Half-snores that kept rumbling through his chest, a pleasant, stolid reminder of his presence. It wasn't disruptive enough that he could blame his sleeplessness on it. Even with Blaine resting on his chest, his cheek pillowed against his shoulder (the door cracked, naturally, to let in the natural light of the hallway, illuminating the fine profile of Blaine's features and providing one Burt Hummel with a measure of peace that he still owned his own home), he couldn't find sleep. He tried restlessly for hours, shifting positions despite the murmured protests of his companion. At last, he had settled for letting Blaine sleep on his chest and breathing in the warm, homely scent of his freshly washed curls, trying not to think too much about anything at all.

The next morning was a blur. Kurt didn't eat breakfast, too sluggish and disengaged to care when Blaine tried to coax him into it. He made toast and eggs and cereal, even bacon and pancakes when the former didn't win him over. Finn's appearance had spared Kurt the necessity of even eating to be polite. If anything, the taller, lankier teen -- man, Kurt had to remind himself, he's eighteen now -- had seemed even less awake than he himself felt, but one look at the veritable buffet Blaine had cooked up at four in the morning made him lean down (actually lean down) and swoop him up in a hug. It lasted two awkward seconds before he set Blaine back on his feet and attacked the food with a vengeance. Less than twenty minutes later, they were all piled into Burt's truck with a barely awake Burt sitting behind the steering wheel.

Ten awkward seconds had passed in silence as Burt gazed, silent and unmoving, out the front window. Finn was seated in the front passenger seat, one arm pressed awkwardly against the window as he waited for Burt to make a move. Kurt had waited, too, with his cheek smushed against Blaine's shoulder and his eyes closed in a vain attempt at sleep. When the weight underneath his shoulder gently shifted, he made a soft noise of protest and tried to grab at Blaine's sleeve as he stepped out of the truck.

Kurt recalled a brief, quiet conversation between his father and his boyfriend before Burt Hummel took his hands off the wheel, unbuckled the seat belt, and handed Blaine the keys to the ignition. Before Kurt had time to process the full shock of the occasion, his father was sliding into the seat beside him, a little squished in the back seat but otherwise comfortable. Kurt wordlessly rested his cheek against his shoulder instead, content to have a pillow of any sort.

He didn't catch all the songs that Finn and Blaine flipped through on the radio, occasionally eliciting a rumbling protest from Burt as he offered his own opinions regarding song selections. At last settling on a mutually agreeable country station, they stopped at the Lima Bean briefly for coffee (which was to say, Blaine hopped out of the truck, bought them all coffee, and returned five minutes with the drinks in hand) before driving on to McKinley itself.

Kurt's coffee was still cold and untouched in his hands by the time his dad shifted and he reluctantly roused himself to awareness. "Up and at 'em, kiddo," his dad said, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. He sounded much more like himself, Kurt noted, and half-wondered if he should have drank the coffee after all. It was too late then, of course; one experimental sip had him almost gagging. Blaine had politely not mentioned it when he dumped the full cup in the nearest trash bin, Finn and Burt following.

The rest of the New Directions were congregated outside the single unremarkable yellow school bus commandeered for the occasion. Rachel was Rachel, wide awake and brusquely taking charge in the absence of their chaperones (who were arguing loudly on the bus itself about who would drive). With varying degrees of snappishness (Santana nearly tore her head off as soon as she came within a three feet radius, and Quinn glowered so menacingly that even Kurt edged away uncertainly), Rachel's enthusiasm was greeted in typical New Directions' style. Puck alone was ignored completely: he was sleeping underneath the bus, snoring loudly from the pavement.

As soon as she spotted them, Rachel had hurried over to throw her arms around Finn's neck, almost knocking him over in the leap necessary to achieve the feat. She had hurriedly latched onto Kurt's arm, chatting away about song selections and performance times already as Kurt nodded in general acquiescence.

By the time his dad hauled him into a brief hug with promises that he would do great and he wanted to hear all about it, Kurt felt almost woozy with exhaustion, offering only a faint smile and a promise of, "I will," in return.

They'd boarded the bus within the hour and set off for New York. Kurt remembered vaguely that Sue had ultimately won the wheel and beaten Schuester's protests into submission. Accepting the ear bud that Blaine offered him from his iPod as he fished it out of his hoodie, Kurt let himself drift with the music as Blaine played with his Pandora account before settling on a suitably upbeat series. Even the catchy melodies and easygoing nature of the songs wasn't enough to ignite Kurt's enthusiasm, however, as he finally, mercifully, drifted off into sleep.

His last thought was that he wished Blaine had worn one of his cardigans instead of hoodies instead. His hoodie was comfortable, but not nearly as soft as his cardigans. His overworked brain didn't seem to mind as the world faded and sleep consumed him.

* * *

And now he was here.

Here, he realized, was New York. He felt a flicker of excitement rise in his stomach at the thought. They had made it, they were here, and despite repeated, loud, near violent arguments that had erupted along the way (including a terrific thunderstorm that Kurt only woke intermittently to witness), they had survived the journey. Sue's thirty eight promises to turn the bus around hadn't prevailed, and they were here.

"I slept the whole ride?" he asked, feeling a tendril of coherency work its way into his consciousness as he looked around.

"You stayed awake for the first twenty minutes," Blaine offered, attempting to be reassuring. There was something akin to relief in his voice at his coherency, though, and Kurt felt a tinge of guilt as he realized how worried he must have been. They all must have been, he realized, as he surveyed the room. While their scrutiny wasn't the most comfortable experience, it was still touching in its own way. Despite how far they had come, they were still only their small rebel force of misfits briefly entitled to commandeer the stage. They needed every member, he knew, to have a prayer of success.

"What time is it?" Kurt asked, forcing himself to sit up a little more without Blaine's support. Grogginess made him almost woozy and he swayed a little, Blaine's grip on his waist keeping him steady.

"Five thirty," Rachel said promptly. Kurt noticed that she was standing at the foot of the bed; he could almost picture her pacing anxiously as she tried to come up with a solution to his unexpected collapse. "We were just debating the merits of staying in and ordering something or going out for dinner." She looked painfully ready to explore the city and Kurt knew without asking which stance she had chosen.

"Go," he said, almost hearing the collective sigh of relief from the rest of the room.

"Are you sure?" Mr. Schue asked. He looked genuinely concerned, too, his gaze almost painfully earnest as he looked at Kurt. "How are you feeling?"

It was the first time he'd actually been asked in the past forty eight hours, Kurt realized, and with the exception of chilled and exhausted, he felt . . . okay. Marginally better than he had before, even.

"I'm okay," he said, putting as much sincerity and firmness into his voice as he could. "I didn't sleep at all last night and . . . it caught up with me." He offered a self-deprecating smile and knew that it worked when Mr. Schue nodded and clasped his hands together, turning to address the room as a whole.

In the end, Mercedes, Tina, and Blaine stayed with him. Mike and Sam looked uncomfortable for several long moments before Tina waved them away, saying that if they stayed, then Mercedes and she would paint their toenails. Marcus, Mercedes' beau, had chosen to sit out the competition in favor of supporting them from the stands.

All in all, it was peaceful. Tina ordered pizza while Mercedes and Blaine played some weird, fast-paced card game. Barely three words would be exchanged before a round was over, one or the other tapping out the deck and scooping up the pile while the other growled or grumbled in disappointment. Once Tina returned with the pizza, they settled in underneath the covers and watched movies via Netflix. The hotel that they'd chosen wasn't particularly fancy (it had to fit within their limited budget, after all), but it had certain favorable amenities that endeared it to the group. Including The Breakfast Club.

By the time they'd finished the pizza -- Blaine had single-handedly eaten half of one box and a quarter of the second before conceding defeat and rubbing Kurt's belly absentmindedly for the rest of the movie; Kurt himself had eaten four slices, surprising himself with his own appetite -- they'd settled down to cuddle snugly on the bed and run through the list of other movies included in the package. Mercedes, Blaine, and Tina provided all the arguing and commentary that Kurt could need, snuggled comfortably against his boyfriend. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the second time he awoke it was very late and, with the exception of a few subdued snores, very quiet.

The rest of the New Directions had returned, he realized sluggishly, rising and falling gently with the person underneath him. Belatedly, he realized that it was Blaine, breathing slow and even with sleep. Mercedes and Tina were still sandwiched on either side of him, and the girls had taken over the remainder of the room. Sugar even had a bright pink blanket and matching pillow set up on the couch -- she snored the loudest, predictably.

Chuckling a little in spite of himself, Kurt turned his cheek back against Blaine's shoulder and drifted off into sleep.

He dreamed of victory, and trophies, and lazy, sleepy goodnight kisses.

* * *

The competition would be fierce. Blaine knew that even before they had stepped inside the prestigious halls of the hosting Academy's auditorium. Unfamiliar with the region -- let alone the school itself -- Blaine let the flow of competitors guide him, staying close to the New Directions. Fortunately, they'd been permitted to sleep in until ten before Sue Sylvester had cheerfully yelled at them to get their lazy, mediocre, unworthy asses into gear before she forcibly tied all of them to the top of the bus on the drive home.

The reference to home seemed strange, given all that it entailed. Home was . . . home was with the Hudson-Hummels, Burt and Carole and Finn and Kurt. Home was Lima, Ohio. Home was McKinley.

Home was Kurt.

And he knew, without a single doubt, that Kurt wanted to be here. That this was Kurt's true home.

It had been disconcerting to see Kurt so worn down and drained mere hours before their competition. Blaine would have done anything to cheer him up, to have him give a single real smile before they left Lima. Instead, he had received ambivalent looks and distant frowns, a half acknowledged nod here and there whenever he offered a question or proposition. By the time they had boarded the bus -- with Sue Sylvester ruthlessly haranguing them every step of the way -- Blaine had feared for his boyfriend, worried about his health and . . . and him.

Kurt had never shut down before a competition, and yet it was the only way that Blaine could describe it. He had locked himself away in a place that Blaine couldn't reach, and it had worried Blaine to no end. Even the prospect of the impending end to their year -- and the consequent end to all the greatness that they had built up within it -- didn't seem to matter. So he had done everything that he could think of to coax Kurt into talking about it, until at last he had simply offered him an ear bud and let music speak for him.

And Kurt hadn't said a word, had slept on his shoulder the entire ride but for the occasional bleary-eyed consciousness. Blaine had rubbed his arm or shoulder for most of the journey, his cheek pressed to the top of his head as he pondered and considered and worried. Even passing across the state lines and entering New York for the first time had lost its thrill for him. All he wanted was to share the experience with Kurt, but Kurt was worlds away, and he didn't have the heart to wake him.

The morning of the competition itself was different. Kurt came alive again, the almost sickly pallor to his cheeks fading and his cool, almost clammy touch warm and soothing once more as he slid his hand into Blaine's grasp. They sat next to each other on the bus again, marveling at the sights together in wide-eyed silence, and when at last they pulled up in front of their competition site, Blaine felt that Kurt truly was almost normal again.

In the green room, pandemonium took over, preventing Blaine from thinking further on the topic. Concerns about Kurt were replaced by concerns about time slots and performances and when they would be expected to take the stage. Grievances about fellow competitors were shared and disappointments about the skill level of their enemies collectively bemoaned. As they scurried about frantically preparing for their own early afternoon slot, Blaine was caught up in the rush of it. His heart twinged a little as he recalled countless sessions with the Warblers pre-competition in the same flurry of activity.

There were blazers and ties to adjust, pants and shoes to be fitted. Skirts fluttered into place while belts were clinched and zippers tugged into place. Hair was combed again into painstaking submission while make-up was liberally applied. A light, pleasant aroma wafted through the room as a plethora of various, muted scents rose from a half dozen perfumes and colognes.

In the end, Blaine stood near a corner fiddling anxiously with his tie, unable to get the knot right as he listened to the barely audible drone of the emcee in the background. He startled when a pair of cool hands settled over top his and gently pulled them away. It was as if the world dissolved, then, narrowing down solely to him and Kurt as Kurt expertly knotted the tie into place.

"You're going to be amazing," he whispered, and Blaine heard it clearly despite the noise fluttering at the edges of his awareness.

"We're going to be amazing," he corrected gently, catching Kurt's hand and squeezing it before letting go as the red light blinked and places were called.

It didn't seem to matter, then, the panic, the confusion. Even the jostling and hurrying into place was irrelevant as Blaine walked calmly beside Kurt. He could hear the pounding in his ears and the roar of the crowd crescendoing as the emcee worked his verbal magic, firing them up for yet another performance. A light sheen of sweat had already formed on his brow from sheer anticipation, and he swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple bob gently with the movement.

"Nervous?" Kurt asked gently, almost teasingly, as he stepped up beside him. Blaine offered him a brief, almost pained smile as his heart pounded, each second ticking away too quickly as he considered all the things that were missing. He wasn't lead Warbler with the rest of the Warblers standing around him, uniformly dressed so that no one would stand out aside from the lead soloist, still inherently shielded by the group as a whole. They stood behind him, for better or for worse, and they trusted him, and he trusted himself, and it worked.

This was different. This was new. He looked around and didn't simply see himself and a dozen friendly faces wearing the same outfits ready to stand in a solid wall behind him. No, this time he would be out there, alone, a single performer caught up in a vast stage.

He swallowed and nodded once, feeling Kurt's hand descend on his shoulder and give it a light squeeze.

"You're adorable," he whispered, and suddenly Blaine didn't feel nervous as he felt a soft, almost teary laugh bubble out of him.

That was all it took, really, to take away the rest of his tension. He relaxed, and when the emcee's voice came to an anticipatory halt after announcing their arrival, Blaine knew that it would be okay.

They would make it. For better or for worse. They would do this and they would kill it and whatever came next . . .

. . . they would endure. Together.

The curtains fell away as the stage lights settled on them. The New Directions stood and Blaine breathed out slowly, feeling the energy in the room as an almost palpable sensation. Kurt stood less than ten feet away and Blaine knew without looking that he was thinking the same thing.

We're going to win.

The music began, and they soared.


	63. Chapter 63

The parking lot at McKinley was quiet, eerily so for mid-morning.

Kurt was not alone in staring uncertainly at the empty lot. Having rallied the next morning after their competition to announce their victory to the school, it seemed like an insignificant feat compared to the cold stone of the building itself. Even Rachel was silent, her lips pressed together in a tight line as she stared at the building, chin raised. Nevertheless, Artie wheeled ahead determinedly with the trophy in his lap, straight for the doors, Puck and Mike flanking him. Slowly, the rest of the New Directions shuffled after the trio, pouring through the glass doors in a cautious tide. Inside, the silence was almost deafening, hundreds of students stationed motionless against the walls.

It had seemed like a nightmare in those first few moments as they took tentative steps into the school. The silence was absolute: not a soul stirred at their presence, implacable eyes bearing down on them. In some small, reserved corner of Kurt's mind, panic reigned, half-wondering if they had walked straight into an ambush. Unbidden, images of the Dalton Academy parking lot flashed across his mind's eye, dissipating as one of the hockey jocks stepped forward.

For one horrified moment, Kurt was certain he was going to be slushied, the rest of the glee club standing resolutely before the jock's scrutiny. No one dared move, staring each other down as the rest of the school watched, anxious and calm at once.

Rick the Stick Nelson pulled a Big Quench cup from behind his back. Though tempted to close his eyes, Kurt kept them open, staunchly focused on the familiar red-and-white cup as he stared his enemy in the face, disbelieving, disgusted with the unfairness of it all but unwilling to be the first to break from their group. It only lasted a moment, though, a single breath in time before Rick thrust the cup forward and a flurry of red confetti washed over them.

After that, pandemonium erupted. Kurt didn't know who threw the next cupful of confetti or when the cheering began, but he was keenly aware of Blaine's hand in his, their shoulders pressed close as they rode out the initial shock waves. Kurt felt like his entire world had done a complete revolution, leaving him open-mouthed and stupidly incapable of speech as he stared at the confetti falling around them. He wasn't alone: none of the New Directions said a word as the confetti fell and the cheers rose, quickly pulled into the crowd as the locker sentinels broke ranks and swelled around them.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. With Blaine's hand anchoring him to the safety and solidarity of the present, Kurt rode out the chaos, only once losing his grip as a jock pulled him roughly into a hug. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he only managed a weak grin when the jock finally released him and hurried to join in the hooting and yelling that the others had taken up. Distantly, he was aware of Coach Sylvester blowing a whistle to regain control, but the wave of sound easily drowned out the high, delicate sound.

An age passed as they were jostled and hugged and torn apart and reunited. Kurt noticed celebratory kisses against lockers, even Brittany and Santana joining in the reveling. For one brief moment he was tempted to turn around and kiss Blaine just to do it, but his fingers grasped thin air as he whirled to do so, a slight frown marring his expression as he noticed that Blaine was nowhere in sight.

Scanning the nearest bystanders, he pursed his lips as he forced his way through a ring of cheerleaders gabbing gleefully among themselves, their gossip lost to his ears as he forced his way out of the immediate throng. Coach Sylvester's whistle was almost piercingly loud without the intervening wall of sound, but he didn't pay it any mind as he strode off down the hall, the general wave of students dissipating the further he walked. By the time he reached the end of the hall, the celebration trickled to a small crowd, scattering students appraising the chaos from afar. Kurt paid them no mind as he lengthened his stride, rounding the corner and, on reflex, pushing open the auditorium doors as he passed them.

The deep, hollow clang as the doors separated and rejoined to announce his arrival startled the duo in the center of the room, leaping apart as though their friendly proximity could be misinterpreted. Dave looked uncomfortable and sheepish as he reached up to rub the back of his neck, his cheeks darkening with a flush. Blaine's gaze met Kurt's calmly, calm and unperturbed, invitational and friendly. Warily, Kurt approached, abandoning his stronghold by the door in favor of venturing forth. He hadn't seen Dave in -- weeks, he realized with a start, trying to piece together why he had chosen now of all times to make an appearance. His heart sank at the thought of bad news.

Not now. Please not now.

Not in the wake of their victory, their nationals' victory, the victory that had taken three long years to achieve. They had struggled and squabbled and bleed for it, lied and cheated and lost, and its sweetness remained untainted by all of it. All that had mattered had been that stage, their voices honed and movements fine-tuned to a tee. Even Finn had been drilled to learn the choreography until he was passably good, blending in with the rest if not detracting from the whole. All of that -- all the pain and frustration and heartbreak -- had finally paid off when the judges announced that William McKinley High's New Directions had usurped Vocal Adrenaline's five year lead and taken the title of National Champions.

It had been a glorious moment.

And Kurt couldn't let Dave ruin it.

Mouth dry, he stopped less than ten feet away, arms loose at his sides. He wanted to fold them, to cross them over his chest protectively and keep all the good feelings protected from potential disappointment and hatred and anguish. He wanted to lock that good feeling in for forever, the triumph, the glory, the joy.

He didn't, though, because he was strong enough to stand before Dave and not fear him. Not anymore.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice soft and not accusatory.

"We were just--"

"I got a football scholarship," Dave interrupted, cutting Blaine off and turning to look fully at Kurt. His cheeks were partially flushed, ugly spots of red interspersed with his white pallor. "To OSU."

"That's great," Kurt said, feeling like he was underwater, his head swimming a little. He didn't know what Dave wanted -- approval, most likely -- but it felt strange for him to be expected to respond. For one moment he wished that he hadn't stumbled upon them at all, that he had simply kept walking until eventually he circled around and met Blaine in the choir room later. Then they could reiterate their victory, relive every moment of the experience with their own bubbling chatter until eventually they ran out of words and simply relished each other's presence, not needing words to describe it all. Instead, here he was, looking at the face of his former tormentor and feeling a strange ... calm, almost. Contentment. "That's really great, David," he added, his voice a little less thick.

"I wouldn't have gotten it if I had transferred," Dave continued, his gaze alternating flicking between Kurt and Blaine. "My grades aren't the best." He shrugged once, accepting what was and would always be. "I ... I'm sorry," he added, his voice low. "For what I did to you." The intensity of his gaze made Kurt want to look away, or flee: anything to get away from it. Instead, he matched it, refusing to be intimidated by his past. He inclined his head in the faintest of nods. What was was, and always would be. He could begrudge Dave forever for that, or accept his transformation and move on. It seemed curious -- and almost bitter -- that he had been selected to witness this moment, to be one of the first, one of the few, to celebrate it in any way.

"I'm done clinging to my past," Kurt said quietly, surprised at the truth behind those words as he stepped forward. Dave's entire stance stiffened a little, but he merely walked past him and stood beside Blaine instead. Blaine, who was watching the exchange warily, uncertain if his interference would be required. "I'm tired of . . . being sad about things I can't change, and not looking forward to what I can. So I'm . . . I'm happy for you, David. I'm glad you found . . . a way out of this."

Dave nodded, glancing between the two of them with a look that was part resignation, part pain. Kurt couldn't help but slide his hand down to grip Blaine's for support, reassured by the weight of his warm fingers against Kurt's own. He noticed Dave's gaze flicker down to their intertwined hands briefly before he looked up once more, his eyes resting heavily on Blaine.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

"You did everything you could," Blaine countered quietly.

It took Kurt a moment to decipher the unspoken exchange, the ruefulness and sorrow intermingled with piercing awareness of the prior events. The fires set by Jeremy Bletcher seemed a lifetime ago, the damage done almost forgotten. Looking at Blaine, the subdued way that he regarded Dave, Kurt couldn't help but recall Dave's involvement: his reluctant admission about Bletcher and his potential for causing destruction. The warning had come too late, but Dave hadn't stepped forward to assist more in the process, either. His sole piece of advice had come grudgingly, and even that had not been enough to spare Blaine weeks of recovery.

"Congrats on the win," Dave said at last, looking between the two of them and offering a slight, almost pained smile. He turned on his heel and left the auditorium without another word, Blaine inching a little closer to Kurt as Kurt did the same. When the door finally clanged shut behind Dave, neither of them moved, reluctant to break the spell of peace.

"We won," Blaine said at last, softly, squeezing Kurt's hand lightly.

A slow smile wound its way across Kurt's face as he turned again to face Blaine, looping his arms around his waist. "Did we?" he asked, his voice light, almost teasing.

Blaine simply looked at him, eyes warm, smile even more so. "We did," he said softly.

Kurt couldn't help himself, then; he leaned forward and kissed him, his arms sliding up behind his back to loop around his shoulders. Blaine's own sneaked around Kurt's waist, a soft, barely audible whimper escaping him as he clung to Kurt, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. Kurt didn't know how long it lasted, but when at last he reluctantly turned his head aside for a breath Blaine's mouth chased his, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him.

"You take my breath away," he admitted, quietly, Blaine's smile soft and sincere as he kissed Kurt's cheek.

"Artie's having an after party at Breadstix," he murmured, his tongue clicking a little as he did so. "Would you ... accompany me?"

Kurt couldn't help but give his shoulders a light, almost chastising squeeze at the formality of it. He'd known about the party, being held come victory or defeat. He knew that the group would doubtless be thrice as enthused as they would have been if they hadn't won resoundingly at Nationals. He even knew that, logically, they should go, because it was one of the last times that they could all be together, be friends and family and one in a way that they weren't before.

But looking at Blaine, he knew another thing, too.

"No," he said, his voice soft and almost feather light. Blaine's crestfallen expression lasted only a moment, however, before Kurt breathed, "I want to . . . I want you to come to my house."

Blaine blinked, the cogs slowly turning in his mind, connections slowly made. Burt and Carole gone for the weekend on a Congressional trip. Finn doubtless staying overnight at Rachel's. Empty house. No interruptions. "You . . . you want to . . . ."

"Yes," Kurt confirmed, leaning forward to kiss him again once, just once. "I want to . . . with you."

No other words were needed as Blaine nodded, giving his hand the gentlest of squeezes. "Okay," he whispered, and some of the tension that Kurt had been carrying around forever melted.

* * *

It was quiet, afterward.

They didn't speak. Kurt had one hand curled around Blaine's shoulder, his arm extended between them so their elbows brushed companionably. His eyelids fluttered between half-awake and sleep, a soft, warm smile twitching his lips each time Blaine stroked his thumb over Kurt's waist, a steady, soothing motion that seemed to help gently ease him back down to earth. Hours passed with neither making a move to shift away from the other. They didn't want to move, reluctant to close their eyes and let the reality disintegrate into a memory -- pleasant and remarkable, but intangible, nonetheless.

"I love you so much," Blaine said at last, voice thick, as he leaned forward to close the tiny gap between their faces and kiss him. Kurt made a quiet noise of approval as he closed the distance between shoulder and neck and tangled his fingers in the loosened curls resting there.

They had both insisted on showering beforehand; self-conscious and giddy and elated though they were, almost bumping into each other up the stairs and again in the hallway before at last Kurt rolled his eyes and propelled Blaine towards the bathroom before scurrying off to his bedroom to tidy up. When he had returned from his own shower, Blaine was waiting, warm and serene, curled up partially on his bed watching him with soft bedroom eyes. A shiver had walked up Kurt's spine at that, the way intimacy and familiarity mingled. Once, he would have blushed at the mere mention of having a boyfriend that he could do things with. Now, seasoned and comfortable, he didn't hesitate before shedding his bathrobe and crawling up onto the bed beside him.

Even then, they had been fully clothed, neither willing to take the immediate leap from clothed to bared without the other's direct approval. They had kissed for what seemed like hours, Blaine's back to the headboard and Kurt leaning over to reach him, their languid pace reaching a slightly headier pace once Blaine shifted so his back was to the mattress itself and pulled Kurt down on top of him, burying his hands in the fabric of Kurt's vest.

He shed the outfit at the simple request, and so it had progressed, shirts and belts and pants quickly following. Kurt almost giggled himself silly when he felt a sock-clad foot brush against his calf, remedying the situation by giving Blaine a pointed nudge backwards until he was seated on his bare haunches, actually pouting at him as he obligingly removed the offensive articles.

Kurt leaned over him to kiss him once more, soothingly, and lost track of who lead whom as they fell back on the bed, groaning softly against each other.

Layers came away in those moments, armor peeled off in gentle, seductive touches that came as fleetingly as their kisses. Each moment felt fine-tuned and hyper-real as Kurt reflected on them, the soft, almost downy nature of Blaine's curls wrapped around his fingers, his straining, sweat-slick back, his warm, steamed breath gusting in short pants against his own bare collarbone. There were fumbles and missteps, soft apologies interspersed with the whispered acknowledgments, promises and professions all rolled into one.

Kurt smiled a little more as Blaine pulled him back to the present with soft, butterfly kisses up the column of his throat, barely there touches. He had to tilt his head backwards a little to give him better access after a time, but he didn't mind. He was fairly certain that if Blaine had asked him then to give up NYADA and come to Tisch with him, he would have. He didn't, though, because Blaine didn't ask, and Blaine wouldn't.

"I love you, too," he breathed, once Blaine's lips were close enough to his own that he could capture them, holding him close and letting his eyelids slide shut at last.

One moment he was awake, more alive than he'd ever been, and the next, he was blinking sleepily back to awareness, fine shafts of sunlight slipping between the shades of his curtains. He looked around, trying to reorient himself as he took in his surroundings, soaked in the sweet, addictive warmth at his side. Without even processing it, he slid closer, nestling further in the grasp of warm, heavy arms that shifted to accommodate him. It made a small smile curl his lips when he realized that Blaine was still asleep, soft, almost inaudible snores rumbling in his chest. Kurt could feel each one if he slipped a little closer, the vibration almost making him giggle and spoil the moment. He leaned forward and pecked the top of Blaine's nose instead, humming softly.

He coaxed Blaine awake with gentle kisses to his cheeks and jawbones and throat, eliciting a warm purr when he sucked softly at the skin right underneath his jaw. Blaine's eyelids slid open to slits, regarding him with sleepy eyes, one hand trailing around to rest against his bare waist.

"Morning," he murmured, accepting the brief kiss Kurt gave him with a hand anchored around his waist. A slight flush tinted his cheeks red as he became aware of their nudity, Kurt slowly processing the same even as he kissed along the furry outlines of his cheek. Not enough to count for stubble, but in another day, it would. Blaine was still, soaking in the affection Kurt felt over pouring from his own chest, unable to contain it or confine it to words.

Eventually, habitual need kicked in and Kurt slid from the bed, one blanket draped around him like a full body cape. Blaine watched him from the headboard with a lazy smile, pointedly following him with his gaze even as Kurt darted from the bedroom, wanting to freshen up as soon as possible. His shower was uncharacteristically brief, loath to scrub off the remnants of Blaine's warm touches off his skin even while an instinctive craving for cleanliness took over. Toweling himself dry and looping the towel around his waist, he padded back to the bedroom, a blush steeling up his cheeks as he noticed Blaine watching him with the same warm smile as before.

With a few more placating kisses, he managed to get Blaine to saunter off in search of the bathroom, tossing a bathrobe over him as he passed. Blaine slid it on as he walked with a slight limp to his step that had nothing to do with jauntiness. Kurt bit his lip a little when he noticed it, wanting to ask if it had really been okay but not daring to in full daylight. Not yet.

He picked out one of his nicer, simpler outfits and quickly donned it, stripping the bed and walking the sheets to the laundry. It felt oddly domestic, in the aftermath of everything that had happened. Kurt hadn't expected it, couldn't have dreamed of how wonderful and perfect his first time would be. It wasn't perfect in the sense that mistakes weren't made and each moment shone with crystal clear sexual awakening. There were bumps and mishaps, but all of it just made it more real, more them, and Kurt loved that about it all. He loved that he had been able to look not merely at the man that he wanted to share himself fully and completely with, but Blaine, Blaine who had been his boyfriend for almost two years and had loved him despite everything in between, Blaine who would do anything within his power to protect Kurt, love Kurt, just as Kurt would do the same.

He was almost halfway through making a batch of pancakes when a pair of warm arms snaked around his waist, Blaine's chin resting on his shoulder gently. "Hi," he murmured, smiling at Kurt. "How are you?"

"Perfect," Kurt said breezily, tilting his head to kiss his cheek, keeping an eye on the pancakes. "How are you?"

"Perfect," Blaine echoed, smiling.

Kurt smiled back. "I'm glad," he whispered, turning his attention back to the pancakes even while remaining keenly aware of Blaine's presence at his back.

His own appetite surprised him by the time the pancakes were done. Blaine eagerly wolfed down three without pausing for conversation, picking up a fourth by the time Kurt had downed a glass of orange juice and two pancakes, lazily unfurling a pear. They talked sparsely between devouring everything they could find, light conversation that flowed easily from one topic to the next. There wasn't anything deeply philosophical or meaningful to it: they talked about everything and anything that came to mind. By the time Kurt leaned back in his chair in defeat, he was stunned at the array of mostly eaten food littering their plates, a soft laugh bubbling out of him at the sight. Blaine paused to look at him, a grin crossing his own face before he bit into an apple.

They spent the rest of the morning like that -- lazy and easygoing, heading out for coffee at their usual time and spending a goodly amount of time pouring over future plans and future living arrangements in New York. Since neither NYADA nor Tisch had freshmen dormitories, they looked over apartments, hands intertwining underneath the table by unspoken consent midway through. It only required one hand to get the point across, anyway; enough to sip at their drinks before shuffling through the dozens of papers they'd accumulated.

Blaine's parents had already pitched in a generous college allowance, and Kurt's had been saving almost since birth, keeping a small fund that grew steadily over the years with the prosperity of his dad's car shop. It was nothing substantial, but enough to cover a sizeable part of his tuition and a foundation for getting an apartment. As they chatted, Kurt found himself both relaxed and tense, dreading the reality looming before him and looking forward to it immensely. There was nothing more he wanted than breaking free of the Lima stranglehold and living his dreams in New York. All he needed was a small apartment with sufficient nourishment and space to survive and he would be satisfied. He would forge his own paths as he had begun to do as class president. Intern somewhere, get a job, maybe, take courses at NYADA. All of it would fall into place as soon as he arrived and settled in; the settling in was the tricky part.

"Does it ever just seem . . . overwhelming to you?" he asked, genuinely curious, cutting off the steady tide of Blaine's conversation. He blinked, looking at Kurt with steady, unfazed eyes.

"All the time," he admitted, giving Kurt's hand another light squeeze. "Knowing that I'll have you around? It makes it easier."

"What about your parents?"

Kurt could almost feel the way that Blaine closed down at that, his retreat cut off by his awareness that Kurt and he had already broken those barriers last night. They couldn't retreat anymore, not like that, and Kurt saw how much it off-put Blaine to realize it. He might be able to keep secrets and lie, but he couldn't dismiss larger issues so easily, not with the magnitude of trust they had given to each other already.

"They're . . . supportive," he hedged at last, stumbling over the words a little. "They want me to attend a school that . . . 'reflects my academic ambitions.'" He wrinkled his nose a little at that; the gesture there and gone before any passerby could notice. It was further diminished when he took a sip of coffee a moment later. Kurt noticed it. He couldn't help it. Blaine knew it, too, and a soft sigh escaped him as he acknowledged the defeat. "Ideally? Business or law. Medicine's an option, too, but they're not as sold on that."

Kurt's fingers tensed around Blaine's reflexively; Blaine's thumb glided over his knuckles once, soothingly. "And you?"

Blaine blinked. "What about me?"

Kurt repressed an exasperated sigh, not wanting to fight. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Oh." Blaine was quiet for a time, staring at the sheets pooled out in front of them. A soft blush crossed his cheeks as he admitted, "I want to perform. I want to . . . to be involved in theater somehow. Producing, writing, acting . . . all of it. I want to do it all."

Kurt nodded, relieved that he could still coax some answers out of him, however hard they might be.

"But those aren't . . . they aren't practical," Blaine cut in quickly, half-wanting to retreat into his internalized shell even after such an admission.

"Why not?" Kurt asked softly, daring him to respond.

"It's almost impossible to get a job in the entertainment industry," Blaine said, "let alone one that . . . I can use to support myself for the rest of my life."

"You mean one that pays well."

Blaine inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes," he said softly. "Exactly."

Kurt hummed, saying nothing as he looked down at the papers, realizing that with his dreams, he'd always seen a fairly straightforward path: NYADA lead to things like Broadway and Hollywood, depending on what caught a person's fancy, and Vogue lead to becoming the next Alexander McQueen. Both of which, he knew, were ambitious goals. The one certainty he had was that he would live in New York and he would prosper there. Whether he followed his same path to fame and fortune, he didn't know; he'd started enough of a blogging community online with various fashion critics that he had even contemplated becoming some form of fashion journalist. If nothing else, it could be a gateway to earning an internship that could ultimately lead to a more autonomous career.

For him, there was nothing that could stop him from striving for his goals. Blaine, he knew, was another story.

"You could always get a job while you're in school," Kurt pointed out. "Start performing at local bars. Work your way up."

Blaine said nothing for a time, at last sighing and pulling his hand from Kurt's so he could rest his head in both hands. "I want that," he said. "I do. But . . . I know that my parents--"

"Aren't you," Kurt interrupted gently, reaching forward to squeeze his elbow. "Okay? No matter what their ambitions are or their expectations might be, they . . . they're your parents. They're going to support you, and that means they'll need to learn to support your ambitions."

"And if they don't?" Blaine asked dryly, the almost sarcastic edge to his voice hiding his fear well.

Kurt shrugged. "Then we'll support you. My dad and I. Carole. Finn. We'll support you, Blaine. Rachel's already been talking about how she can't wait to get a loft together. I know Mercedes is thrilled that you're coming to New York with me. I don't want you to throw your life away like this."

"It wouldn't be a bad life," Blaine said, dropping his arms to look at Kurt, scuffing one fingertip against the table slowly. "I would still . . . make a good income and meet good people and live a good life."

"You'd settle for something instead of your dream?"

Blaine bit his lip, saying nothing for a time. At last, he inclined his head minutely. "I'd do it to make my parents happy," he said softly.

"You need to talk to them," Kurt insisted, gentle but firm, as he reached across the table to intertwine their fingers once more. "Okay? You can't . . . do this to yourself without at least talking to them. And maybe . . . maybe they've changed, maybe they'll be just as happy that you want to start an acting career instead of becoming a lawyer." Blaine looked at him with subdued, doubtful eyes, and Kurt squeezed his hand once, hard. "We're going to figure this out, okay? Don't stress about it. I stressed myself sick about the nationals' competition, and look how that turned out." Blaine's expression softened a little, and he gave Kurt's hand a gentle squeeze in return before freeing it to scoop up the papers.

"You're right."

"Of course I am," Kurt said, hoping his light tone would bring a smile back to Blaine's face. "I'm right about everything."

Blaine arched an eyebrow at that, a wry smile curling his lips. "Don't get too cocky," he warned, standing up and shrugging on his jacket.

Kurt grinned, reaching over to link their arms, briefly resting his head on Blaine's shoulder as he did so. "You love me," he murmured, for Blaine's ears alone, feeling warm and safe and loved all at once with Blaine so close.

"I do," Blaine admitted, squeezing his hand once hard and kissing his temple. "So, so much."

* * *

Blaine leaned back on the balls of his feet slowly, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He could hear footsteps within, a slow hand turning the knob before his mother's face appeared before him. "Blaine," she said, surprise and relief warring with each other as she held the door open for him, visibly restraining herself from reaching out and pulling him into a tight hug. His throat constricted a little at that, at how much he wanted to just be hugged by his mother without any strings being attached.

The house was almost exactly as he remembered: quiet and empty. His mother's usual place on the couch had been tidied up and abandoned, immaculate. Blaine lifted an eyebrow infinitesimally at that, but his mother still noticed and answered quietly, "I'm taking classes at OSU. Finishing up my nursing degree."

Blaine nodded once, shrugging out of his coat slowly and hanging it on the rack. It felt strange, how tempted he was to leave it on and stand close to the door, close to a ready escape. He had become a stranger in his own home, he realized, looking around, noticing the stack of papers that his mother had left on the table. "How is everything?" he asked, stepping carefully into the living room, sitting down on the untouched couch. He saw his mother bite her lip before carefully sitting on one of the chairs adjacent to it, one shoulder hitching up in a shrug.

"Bri -- your father still has his firm to keep up with, so he's busy most days," she said. "I quit working at the animal shelter to resume classes. I knew that . . . it was time. To finish what I'd started." She looked at him with calculating eyes, trying to discern his own thoughts without having to ask. Blaine knew the unspoken admission: I knew that you were leaving to start your college education, so I decided to finish my own.

"How's school?" she asked, leaning forward a little, the first genuine interest she had shown in years. Looking at her, Blaine realized that she looked good. Better, even, than she had in a long time. More alert. More there. "I heard your show choir won nationals."

"We did," Blaine confirmed, his voice carefully neutral. "We placed fifth in the first elimination round and first in the finals." He found himself explaining the competition's layout almost without thinking about it, quickly digressing into the New Directions' narrative. He glanced over the specifics of the first day, omitting hotel arrangements and Kurt's sudden, alarming sickness as he detailed the trip.

The day of the competition itself had been grueling. Having woken early to perform for the first round, they hadn't been able to do more than pick over the delectable lunch generously provided by the competition's hosts at noon as they awaited the results. Everyone had been edgy, needing to know whether or not they had even placed, desperately wanting to believe that there was no possibility that they couldn't. Rachel expounded her own theories until Santana finally lunged halfway across the table and almost managed to successfully claw her face off before Sam hauled her back into her seat, Puck helping on his other side. The announcement could not have come soon enough as the New Directions piled out of the cafeteria and into the lobby, staring wide-eyed and silent at the competition board as an official slowly chalked down the results.

By the time the first five names had been written at the bottom of the list, Blaine had shared the anxious, sick certainty that they weren't even going to place again, his stomach sinking at the thought. When the judge had written the first N, elation quickly replaced disappointment, followed shortly by ecstasy as their name appeared in full. The cheering alone was almost deafening amidst the anxious muttering of the other competitors as they squabbled to reach the front to see. The New Directions let themselves be jostled aside as they hugged and screeched and almost broke down from sheer relief.

The competition wasn't over, however, and placing among the top ten competitors only meant qualification for the finals. There, the slate would be wiped clean once more, teams expected to rally an even more stunning performance before the finals at eight. During that time, the New Directions locked themselves in their green room and plotted until fingers were close to bleeding and nerves nearly frayed when the emcee announced that the competition would begin in an hour.

Fortunately for the New Directions, Coach Sylvester had forcibly extricated them from the green room after six consecutive hours of planning and marched them to the cafeteria where Schuester had reserved a table for them amidst a squabble of other groups. The planning hadn't stopped there, but they had forced edgy nerves aside to devour as much food as they could stomach, mentally running over notes and lyrics as the noise in the auditorium above rose and fell periodically.

By the time they had stripped down and dressed up in their competition outfits once more, solemnity had taken over. No one said a word in those final minutes, silence reigning until Artie wheeled forward and by some mutual, unspoken consent, the others joined in a ring around him, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders as they closed their eyes and prayed, hoped, dreamed, begged for victory.

When at last it was their turn, they had walked out of that room for the last time, the red light flashing above their heads as they did so, and rejoined on stage.

And it had been magnificent.

Even Rachel and Finn's duet had gone seamlessly, Rachel's voice expressing the full depths of its range while Finn's complemented hers strategically. They had moved across the stage slowly but elegantly, each step deliberate, each sway and breath kept for the exact moment it was meant. The rest of the New Directions had held position until the duet tapered off to a crescendo, leading in amidst roaring applause to their next number, a group number, that sparked with electricity: Paradise by the Dashboard Light. If the judges had docked them any points for using the same leads twice (which, doubtless, they had; nationals' judges, unlike their local predecessors, were notoriously brutal), then they had more than made up for it in the strength of their vocal harmonization throughout the medley. By the time they came to a halt, blood pounding in their ears and spotlights bearing down on them, the applause was thunderous.

Blaine had known, in that moment, as he stood with his head bowed and his fingers trembling slightly from sheer exhilaration at his side, that they had won. In a way, he was certain, the others had, too. They hadn't needed the final judging panel to determine that. The hour long wait between their number and the final announcements seemed to rush by in a blur, and when the emcee announced that from Ohio, our 2012 National Show Choir champions, the William McKinley High's Neeeeew Direeeections! there was, for one moment, absolute silence. And then sound rushed in and there were cheers and screams and hugs, everyone grappling to hug each other before being propelled along.

Even now, relating the story to his mother, Blaine had to pause to soak in that memory, that single moment in time when the New Directions had stood on top of the world. The reception back at home had been icing on the cake, even Karofsky's appearance failing to diminish his joy, loosening a weight from his shoulders instead. And Kurt . . . Kurt was everything.

Kurt was right.

"Kurt and I . . . we've been looking at apartments in New York," he said at last, wanting, needing to break the silence. He met his mother's gaze and held it as he said quietly, "I know that . . . you and . . . Dad want me to get a business degree. Or a law degree. I . . . I'm going to get a degree in fine arts."

"Fine arts," his mother repeated, neither disapproving nor accusatory.

"New York has . . . tons of performance opportunities," he said, almost steamrollering over himself in his haste to make his point. "I can start at -- at bars and clubs and work my way up. Make connections. Meet people. Maybe even perform in a few minor shows. I'll study cinematography and performance and theater and writing and get my degree."

"And after?" his mother asked, almost gently. Blaine's shoulders stiffened a little nevertheless, fearing that his one weak point might be the end-all to his argument.

"I don't know," he said quietly, simply, setting the knowledge before her almost like a peace offering.

She said nothing for a long time, staring down at her hands, doubtless analyzing and weighing the information he'd presented to her.

"New York is . . . a special place," she said at last. "Families come to places like Lima to settle down. Families and people that have already lived their dreams or never cared to." She looked up at him, meeting his gaze once more. "I want you to experience life in the best way that you can, Blaine. And if that means that you'll work hard and use what's around you to succeed, then . . . who am I to stand in your way?" She offered a small smile.

"You . . . approve?" Blaine asked, the word sounding strange on his tongue. He'd half expected her to serenely withdraw his college fund unless he promised to major in a more applicable career and perhaps minor in his theatrical pursuits. Untethered permission stunned him.

"Of course I do," his mother replied, looking a little hurt and considerably guilty at the expectation in his voice. "Blaine, I . . . I haven't been as good to you as I should have. This past year especially. I'm not going to burn bridges while you're still . . . while I still have a chance to mend them."

"What about Dad?"

"He'll accept the path that you've chosen and support it," she said, with such certainty in her voice that Blaine wondered how he could ever doubt it. Then again, given the history between himself and his father, doubt quickly resurfaced. She must have seen it on his face because she stood, and wordlessly he stood as well. For a moment they said nothing, and then she was folding him in her arms and he pressed his cheek against her shoulder, letting her presence wash over him. "We love you, Blaine," she said softly, holding onto him like she didn't dare let go. He didn't know if he could have in that moment, either, so he simply held back tightly. "I know we . . . we've made mistakes and have a lot to make up for, but we love you."

"I. . . ." He pulled back a little, expression pained.

"You don't have to say it, sweetie," she replied gently, sadly, letting go. "I'll talk to your father."

"No," he blurted, unable to help himself. "I'll . . . I'll talk to him."

She looked at him for several long moments, at last nodding once. "Okay," she agreed, stepping back.

Blaine could almost feel the rift forming between them again, uncertainty and wariness reasserting themselves, and he reached out to squeeze her hand once gently, just a quick, fleeting gesture. "I'll come back," he promised. "I won't leave forever."

She nodded once. "Thank you, B."

He left without another word, imperfect, uncertain, but . . . content, for once.

Happy.


	64. Chapter 64

Don't throw yourself around. Like you don't matter. Because you matter, Kurt.

Kurt hummed quietly to himself as he disentangled himself from his blankets, careful not to wake the sleeping figure beside him. Blaine slept deeply, one arm tossed carelessly over his head while the other curled protectively around the pillow that Kurt had slipped into his grasp. He knew that Blaine liked to cuddle and most mornings he didn't mind spending the extra hour or so simply savoring his presence. Compelled by sleeplessness and a desire to seize the day, he padded out of the room, easing the door shut behind himself.

It was only six in the morning, but daylight had already poured in through the windows; spring had officially arrived in Lima, Ohio. It felt good to pad barefoot around the house without wanting to wrap himself up in the nearest fleece or his comfiest part of boots. Of course, given Ohio's inclement weather, the occasional snow flurries weren't uncommon as late as April or even May, but thankfully, the temperatures had risen well into the light jacket range within the first few weeks of March. Kurt couldn't help but smile a little to himself as he glanced out the windows once more, savoring the sight of green grasses and white-blossomed trees once more.

With Finn snoring abominably in the room across the hall and Carole and Burt asleep in the master bedroom between them, the house felt comfortably full, peaceful and at rest. Kurt tiptoed across the floor and eased Finn's door shut, the overall volume in the hallway decreasing substantially. Easing his way downstairs without triggering any of the creakier steps, he nearly fell over in surprise when he noticed his dad sitting on an armchair, a newspaper and mug of coffee spread out in front of him.

"Morning, Kurt," he greeted, lifting his cup in a slight toast. "There's more in the kitchen if you want some."

"Why are you up so early?" Kurt asked, warily retrieving a mug of his own and sitting on the couch across from him. "Did something happen?" Panic coiled in his gut, a dark, unpleasant sense of dread washing over him as possibilities crowded their way to the forefront of his mind. His dad looked fine, which excluded the possibility of immediate health issues, but maybe there was something that he wasn't telling him, a doctor's call that he hadn't heard. Swallowing back blind terror, he asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Burt assured, setting his newspaper down on the arm of the chair. Kurt felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders, his stance becoming altogether more relaxed as he leaned back against the couch, coffee mug cradled between his fingers. Burt leaned forward and clasped his hands, watching him closely from his own perch on the arm chair. "How are you?"

"I'm . . . fine," Kurt replied, perplexed at the abrupt change in topic. Maybe there was something else. "Is this about NYADA?"

Burt shook his head, elaborating, "Unless that . . . Madam Tiptoe--"

"Tibideaux," Kurt corrected gently.

"Right, her. Unless she emailed or called you, then no."

Kurt sipped at his coffee, waiting, blue eyes fixed on his father.

"It's about you and Blaine, actually."

Kurt choked.

"Easy, kid," Burt chastised after he'd had a moment to compose himself, still sputtering slightly on the last scalding sip.

"Blaine and I -- we've -- we've been nothing but -- we're -- it's not like--" he babbled, cheeks flaming as he tried to still his suddenly trembling hands, fear and mortification warring for dominance. "We're not . . . we're - "

"I don't want to know the details," Burt interrupted, his own cheeks slightly pink as he lifted both hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm so sorry," Kurt said, willing the floor to swallow him whole. "I . . . we . . . ."

"You're together."

Kurt sighed, all the fight draining out of him at once, slumping back against the couch.

"You don't have to sound so upset," Burt said, chuckling a little. "I mean, you're teenagers, it's not like you don't do things--"

"Can we please not talk about this?" Kurt begged, relatively certain that he could burn a hole through the floor using nothing but his face. "We can talk about football. Or golfing. Or animal slaughter."

"I thought Rachel was the vegetarian."

"Vegan," Kurt corrected instinctively. "She's a vegan."

"Right, right. Why do you want to talk about it? Thinking of becoming one?"

"Please, Dad, we can . . . we can talk about the Celtics. Or the Buckeyes. Or anyone."

"You don't even know who the Buckeyes are," Burt reminded.

"I know they're a football team," Kurt sniffed, offended. "I did watch that game."

"For like, fifteen seconds," Burt retorted, snorting a little. "You and football mesh as well as a bull in a China shop."

"That makes no sense," Kurt deadpanned, setting his coffee aside and folding his arms defensively.

Burt leveled a flat look at him, undeterred. "My point is, Kurt, that this isn't about football," he continued. "It's about you. And Blaine. Now that he's seriously a part of all this. Your future."

"I don't want to talk about my -- my relationship with Blaine."

"You couldn't shut up about him a year ago," Burt quipped, seemingly unable to help himself as a cheeky grin crossed his face once more. Kurt groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Look, Kurt, I'm not trying to make this -- I just wanna talk, okay?" Burt added, expression smoothing over to a more serious one once more.

Kurt sighed, deciding that perhaps facing the music would be minutely less painful than having his dad try and coax it out of him tactfully. "We're using protection," he reported dully. "What else do you need to know?"

"I don't need to know the mechanics. That's what the pamphlets were for. I need to know where your head's at regarding the future. Do you want to be in a relationship with him in a year from now?"

Kurt lifted his head and stared at him, so horrified at the possibility of not being with Blaine that for a moment he was struck speechless. "I . . . I plan to be," he said at last, his voice falling somewhere between fragile and firm. "I've always wanted him to come to New York with me."

Burt nodded, looking gravely satisfied. "Yeah, well. That's good. That you want that. Because you know that . . . you can't just . . . be intimate with someone and not have it affect you."

"I know." The words came out more sharply than he'd intended, and Kurt softened them by saying, "I know, Dad. 'You matter.' I remember."

"Right. I'm not saying that . . . you can't have sex with someone and then decide not to keep them around for a while. You're your own person, Kurt. And soon, you won't have me and Carole around to regulate how much alone time you have. You'll have all the free time you want. We can't even force you go to classes. We can cut off your paychecks, but that's about as much involvement as we'll have in your day-to-day life aside from visits and phone calls."

Kurt felt his chest constrict a little at the thought. He'd considered the reality of living in New York -- being hundreds of miles away from his father and Carole and Finn with little to no contact between breaks -- but hearing it from Burt made it more real, somehow. More imminent.

"I don't want you to think that we're not gonna be there for you," Burt went on. "We will. We'll be there for every major milestone that we can be, and we'll make time for visits and emergency calls when you need them. Just because you go away doesn't change that. We'll still love you no matter what."

Kurt swallowed. "I know," he repeated quietly.

"I want you to go into this with as much love and support as you can have," Burt continued. "I want you to have everything, Kurt. And if Blaine means as much to you as I think he does, then I think that you're smart to want to keep him around. But you need to know that . . . college is hard. Distance is worse. You're going to be stressed out and terrified and overwhelmed. You're going to be scared. You might even want to come home."

This isn't home, Kurt wanted to say, images of New York and spotlights and Broadway leaping to mind before he tamped them down, sitting placidly in his chair instead, listening.

"You have to understand that . . . if you do plan on . . . keeping him around long term, you two are gonna fight. You're gonna be mad at each other and say and do things that you don't mean to. You're gonna get on each other's nerves. But if you're really serious? Then you'll work through those things. And you'll emerge better people because of it. You'll be stressed and scared, but you'll have each other around, and that will make a difference."

"Are you . . . giving us your blessing?" Kurt asked, slowly puzzling out the pieces in his mind.

Burt spread his hands in an inviting manner. "I want you to do what feels right for you. I don't want you to feel like you're locked into a relationship just because you've taken a new step in it. If something happens that makes you change your mind, then listen to it. But if you want this, then . . . I want you to be able to go after it. To be willing to fight for it when things are hard and to appreciate it when they're not."

"You want us to be together."

Burt smiled. "I want you to be happy, Kurt. And if Blaine makes you happy. . . ."

Kurt stood up, and somehow they met in the middle, Burt's arms locking around his back, holding him close. A long time passed in silence, at last Kurt exhaling and pulling away. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Burt squeezed his shoulder once. "You're a good kid. Make good choices." He picked up his coffee and left without another word, shrugging into a coat and disappearing out the front door.

Kurt stood in the middle of the living room for a long time, feeling a sense of contentment settle over him. Gone were the days when his dad would have balked at the prospect of him having a boyfriend. Gone were the days when Kurt would have balked at telling his dad that he was interested in having a boyfriend.

He exhaled slowly and felt at peace.

We're gonna make this work. Blaine and I, no matter what -- we're gonna make this work.

* * *

Time seemed to pass in a flurry for the seniors.

The New Directions were more buoyant than ever in the wake of their Nationals' victory. Practices were largely refereed by Mr. Schuester, who had somehow managed to convince them that it was still important to keep meeting even after their last competition. The debate for how to ensure the survival of the Glee club in the future raged: dozens of applications had already poured into a bewildered Mr. Schuester's office. No one seemed to know the exact cause of the sudden elevation of the Glee club from sub-basement to penthouse, but overnight jocks and Cheerios alike were submitting applications alongside the wider student body. Even the Nationals' win seemed a small price to pay for their sudden popularity; an entire lunch table was suddenly, inexplicably reserved for the New Directions each time they appeared. Principal Figgins seemed gleeful when Mr. Schuester finally asked him outright why the students had had such a dramatic change of heart.

The answer was simple: ten thousand dollars. Ten grand made the difference between dumpster worthy and heroic. The athletic programs all benefited from a tiny boost that meant each subsequent coach loosened the stranglehold on their players just so. The result had left McKinley as a whole definitively more cheerful. While the entirety of the New Directions were convinced that the minor boost wouldn't keep spirits up for long, weeks passed with no waning of enthusiasm in sight.

Reaping the benefits of their newfound popularity, the Glee club seemed simultaneously more in sync and discordant than ever. No one missed after school rehearsals anymore; even Puck showed up five minutes early in order to join the inevitable shouting match. There were questions about leadership, structure, formation. Size became a daunting issue as more and more hopefuls joined the crowd. Even Mr. Schuester seemed at a loss to dictate how many members they should induct into their tiny force.

In the end, Puck's sharp response to one of Rachel's lengthier monologues decided it: they would not accept any new members until next fall.

Silence had reigned in the wake of the announcement, no one knowing exactly what to say in the aftermath of one the greatest debates of their time. At last, Mercedes laughed, doubling over and laughing, and for one moment Kurt was certain Santana was going to actually punch her in the face from sheer frustration before she burst out laughing, too. Even Puck wheezed as he punched Finn on the shoulder, the entire group dissolving into snickers and giggles and cackles as the tension finally broke.

After that, it was like they had never fought. They stayed at each other's houses, they sat elbow-to-elbow at their unofficial lunch table, they even cuddled up next to each other on stage as they waited for Mr. Schuester to issue some stage command or another (for the first few days after the shouting matches had died down, Finn had had to assume command on account of Mr. Schuester's stunned silence). They exchanged information beyond cell phone numbers and similarly shared promises to keep in touch. Kurt noticed Rachel giving Quinn train tickets to visit her in New York, Quinn offering a soft, assured smile in response. Mike and Tina were virtually inseparable; one morning Kurt even caught a glimpse of a tattoo on Tina's waist that looked suspiciously like Mike Chang.

Even Finn and Rachel argued less, preferring to stand close to each other and enjoy the silence for a change. Puck was distant, but he still accepted Quinn's assurances to keep in touch and Finn's promises that he would be fine in LA. Mercedes seemed downright gleeful about her imminent departure, excited about a scholarship she had received. (Marcus, Kurt noticed, seemed to only share part of her enthusiasm; he hadn't applied to any colleges in the same region and was looking distinctly forlorn after Mercedes' announcement.)

Santana and Brittany were not unaffected by the change. Santana had a cheerleading scholarship for Kentucky, prompting a noticeable brightening in her mood (or perhaps simply lightening of her insults). Brittany, however, seemed disconsolate at the news, refusing to speak for days at a time before quietly allowing Santana to hug her in the hallway. Kurt felt like an intruder watching them, unable to look away whenever Santana approached her and just held her close, assuring without words that somehow, it would be okay. It made his heart constrict, knowing that soon enough, he and Blaine would be in the same position, albeit different circumstances. Blaine would have his college studies to look forward to as much as Kurt would have the rigors of NYADA. While they would be living in the same apartment, they wouldn't be around each other during the days as often, compelled to study elsewhere. Once they got jobs, it would be even worse, Kurt knew: late hours and weekends, besides.

Still, he felt a sort of giddy contentment in his own belly at the prospect. It might not be perfect, but it would still be New York, and New York was amazing regardless of what else happened. They might have their difficulties and qualms and frustrations, but they would get through them and be even stronger for it. That was the way that things were and would be, no matter how different their lives would become.

Besides, there was something about the quiet solidarity of Blaine's hand in his own as they sat next to each other in the choir room, listening to the calm exchanges taking place between Mr. Schuester and the rest of the New Directions without comment, that made Kurt feel like everything really would be okay.

* * *

Dalton felt . . . different.

Blaine ran his fingers over the railing gently, walking down the steps. He savored the experience, ignoring the dozens of other freshman that passed him by on their flurried rush for their next classes. They would all disappear soon enough, and right then, he wanted to be in his own world.

He remembered standing here two years ago, hurrying down the steps in time with the other students. His mind had been focused solely on the task before him: get to Warbler's rehearsal. He hadn't been thinking about his woefully thin love life, his few forays into potential prospects deflating like a popped balloon before they had a chance to manifest into anything substantial. No, that day, he'd been utterly intent on doing what he needed to do before retreating to his dormitory for a much needed rest. It hadn't occurred to him that something might change his life, that day.

He paused at the foot of the stairwell, his few companions trickling by until he was the sole occupant of the hall. Looking up the stairs, he could almost picture Kurt standing four or five steps up, one hand gripping his satchel. A small smile crossed his face at the thought. Whatever he had expected when he first turned around and looked up at him, he had received -- and more. Kurt had been someone special, he had known, someone incredible and moving and real in a way that so few people had been at that time. The Warblers as a unit were real to Blaine, but the individual people slipped past his awareness, largely beyond his concern. He hadn't wanted to befriend them; he had wanted to survive high school, sufficiently so that he could get into the college of his dreams and move on with the rest of his life.

Kurt had changed everything. Kurt had forced him to re-evaluate the kind of people that he surrounded himself with, the kind of people that he was willing to let close to him. He opened up more to Wes and David about his concerns and backed off Jeremiah and Rachel Berry types after Kurt had given his input. He learned to let the New Directions into his sphere of friends in spite of their early antagonism, willing to work with them through the growing pains of a rival becoming an ally. He had worked with them until he had learned the songs to a tee, until he could look at the label of New Directions and feel like one of them. He had suffered at McKinley, but he had also risen above it in order to achieve great things.

Brushing his hand once loving against the handrail, almost able to reach out and grasp phantom Kurt's hand, Blaine let his own fall back to his side as he turned and padded off without a word.

He didn't need to walk far before he saw him. Seated in one of the armchairs alone in the Warbler's hall, Sebastian cut a striking figure. He was still clad in his uniform, a pensive expression on his face as he stared out the window at the greenery. Dalton grounds were beautiful in the spring, Blaine reflected, following his gaze. Without saying a word he stepped into the hall, letting the door slide shut behind him.

"I see you still have your uniform," he said at last, quietly.

Sebastian smirked humorlessly. "Once a Warbler, always a Warbler, right?"

Blaine said nothing, staring out the window silently with his arms folded across his chest. "Why did you do that?" he asked eventually, voice barely loud enough to break the quiet.

Long thin fingers drummed lightly along the arm of Sebastian's chair. "Do what, exactly?" he asked, his voice calm and unperturbed.

"Slushy him."

"I believe I slushied you, actually," Sebastian corrected without inflection.

"You meant to slushy Kurt."

Sebastian's lips twitched at the corners. Blaine didn't know if he meant to frown or smile. "I did."

"Why?"

"I wanted to make a statement."

Blaine stiffened. "You wanted to hurt me."

"I wanted to spite you, actually."

"Spite me?" Blaine barely kept an explosive response under reign, adding sharply, "I almost lost an eye because of it."

"I'm aware."

Blaine pursed his lips, saying nothing for a time.

"You dove."

"Excuse me?"

Sebastian didn't respond.

"I dove?" Blaine echoed incredulously.

"It was meant for his clothes."

Blaine frowned, a slight furrow between his brows. Sebastian sighed, a deep, long-suffering sound.

"You dove in front of Kurt. The slushy hit you in the face."

"It would have hit Kurt."

"No, it wouldn't," Sebastian countered smoothly. "Kurt's taller. You were at an angle. I didn't see you until it was too late." He smiled then, a sickeningly sweet gesture. "Your nobility almost cost you an eye, not me."

"What were you aiming for?" Blaine asked, confusion furrowing his own brow.

"His clothes," Sebastian drawled. "I wanted to send a message, Blaine, not end up in prison." His smile turned sardonic. "Which of course, I need not have worried about, given your and Kurt's nobility complexes."

"We could have pressed charges against you," Blaine informed quietly. Sebastian sat unmoving in his chair, his entire expression blank.

"But you didn't," Sebastian countered.

"We didn't," Blaine agreed. "Not for any love of you."

He turned on his heel, striding out of the Warbler's hall. Behind him, he thought he heard a simple, "I know," before the doors clanged shut.

Two hours later, Sebastian's blazer rested alone on the back of the same arm chair.

* * *

"Where were you today?" Kurt asked, offering a warm, almost sultry smile as he tipped his head back to look up at Blaine, leaning his head against the booth. Breadstix was pleasantly crowded at this hour -- early enough that it was still light out, but late enough to qualify as dinner. Without a word Blaine strode up behind him and kissed him once solidly, cupping his cheek before stepping back and letting him go. Kurt blinked up at him, baffled and amused. "What did I do to deserve that?"

"I love you," was all Blaine said, sliding into the booth next to him. "What did you order?"

"The alfredo," Kurt said, waving a hand to indicate the menu before picking up a bread stick and biting off a section. "You're late, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry." Blaine leaned over to kiss his cheek once, prompting a playful swat in return.

"Stop, we're in public."

"I don't care," Blaine countered. "Do you?"

"I do," Santana chimed in, leaning over to whack Blaine solidly on the head with her menu. "Now, chicos, silencio por favor." She snapped her menu open, engrossing herself in its contents without another word.

Blaine blinked, dazed. "What just--"

"Shh," Kurt urged without taking his gaze off his own menu, plucking another bread stick from the basket absentmindedly. Blaine obeyed, picking up a bread stick of his own and nibbling on it slowly. Brittany sat silently across from them, resting her head on Santana's shoulder. Santana didn't seem to mind.

"All right," Santana said, a waiter appearing mere seconds later, jotting down their orders as they rattled them off. When at last he had skittered away to deliver their orders to the kitchen, Santana turned her gaze back on Kurt and Blaine, almost boring into them. "Are you two love birds still going to New York together?" she asked.

"Of course," Kurt replied serenely, taking a sip from his drink. "Except I'm going to NYADA and Blaine's going to Tisch."

"I'm not going to Tisch," Brittany chimed in morosely. "Or NYADA."

"I know, Britt-Britt," Santana said, squeezing her shoulder once lightly. "You're going to get into an even better school."

"NYADA's the most prestigious--" That was as far as Blaine got in his defense of Kurt's college choice before Santana's heel cracked against his shin. Resting his forehead on the table for several long, wheeze-filled seconds, Kurt patting his back soothingly, he lifted his head at last and said delicately, "I think that'd be great."

"Me, too," Kurt echoed, smiling, while Brittany offered a slight smile in response, stirring her drink.

"If nothing else, Lord Tubbington's agreed to let me in one of his inner gang circles."

"Isn't Lord Tub--"

More deep breathing exercises.

"We're gonna find you a college, Britt," Santana assured, patting her arm.

"Of course," Kurt added.

"Absolutely," Blaine chimed in, shying towards Kurt reflexively until Santana nodded once in approval.

"Is she always this--" was as far as he got into his next inquiry before he wisely refrained from any more potentially judgmental comments for the rest of the evening.

"Why did we agree to go out with them?" Blaine asked, making a pained sound in the back of his throat as Kurt pressed a towel-wrapped ice pack to his leg.

"Shh," he soothed, climbing up on the couch behind him and drawing him close to his chest. "It's our date night, remember?"

"I didn't know date night included maiming," Blaine grumbled, shifting his left leg gingerly.

Kurt kissed him on the back of the neck reassuringly. "She can be a little defensive, yes. You should have seen my leg after the first time I agreed to go on a date with them. I bruise easily."

Blaine winced sympathetically. "Why did you choose to go out with them again?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.

Kurt shrugged, clicking the TV on with the remote and selecting Treme from the DVR listings. "Free bread sticks," he replied breezily. "And they aren't so bad, once you get past the first date."

"Mm," Blaine murmured doubtfully, settling back to watch the show. "Hopefully."

Kurt kissed the back of his neck again. "I love you. Thank you for putting up with my weird friends."

"They're my weird friends, too," Blaine pointed out, cuddling back against him.

"Touche," Kurt murmured, smiling.

* * *

Spring break brought a heat wave the likes of which Lima, Ohio rarely experienced.

Blaine and Kurt spent most of their time outdoors, soaking in the sun in between spurts of shopping and catching up with other friends. Kurt cheerfully stuffed Blaine into as many outfits as he would tolerate on their little shopping sprees while Blaine enjoyed spending time outside lazily sprawled on a beach towel together. Sometimes he would bring a book and read for a while; other times he would simply close his eyes and let Kurt's presence comfort him while Kurt read. When the weather ran afoul mid-afternoon one day and they were forced indoors, they showered and spent the rest of the day alternating between baking and watching movies. (Kurt did most of the baking, Blaine the watching.)

All in all, it was a time for rejuvenation. Blaine made a point of spending time away from Kurt so he wouldn't come to dislike his company, and Kurt was sure to entertain himself for hours at a time without Blaine around. Sometimes one or the other would go out and simply spend the entire day out and about, running various errands and keeping in touch with friends. Blaine enjoyed the mornings to himself while Kurt savored afternoons alone; the system worked for them, and that was what Blaine liked most.

When school resumed, it seemed that the entire student body collectively decided to stop trying so hard, stressing less about school work and more about future plans. Blaine kept his grades up during finals, forcing Kurt to do the same with hours of delegated studying. While Kurt was free to spend his time how he wished, Blaine spent the extra time focusing on his work, determined to end strong and boost his GPA. Sometimes he caught Kurt finishing up a lengthier skin care routine by the time he emerged from the basement or backyard with his papers in hand; a small smile curled his lips at the sight of his boyfriend sprawled languorously on the bed, eyes closed and breath slow and even with sleep as he waited for the various skin cares to take effect.

There were rainy morning, sunny afternoons, and blustery evenings aplenty. By the time the end of May arrived, the entire school breathed its own sigh of relief as teachers finalized plans to close up shop for the summer. Burt, too, had started taking more hours on at the tire shop in order to ensure that things would be running smoothly. Everything was just starting in motion, preparing for the transition from one school year to the next. For some it would mean an upgrade from being a freshman to a sophomore. For others, it meant an entire new world of opportunity: college, the work field, and beyond.

For Blaine Anderson, it meant celebrating Kurt's birthday on May 27th.

He planned the day out carefully, forcing himself up earlier than usual and slipping out of bed silently. He offered up a silent plea that Kurt didn't wake, padding downstairs and setting his plans in motion. Breakfast was easy -- Burt had taken on an early shift at the shop and was gone, and similarly Carole had left to do a morning shift at the hospital. Finn slept like the dead, undisturbed by the quiet motions of Blaine's activities. When at last Kurt emerged, sleepy and tousle-haired, into the kitchen, he found a veritable buffet awaiting him, a slow, satisfied smile crossing his lips as he crossed the room and kissed Blaine for several long, glorious moments.

In singles and pairs, various Glee club members dropped by to wish Kurt a happy birthday throughout the morning, turning out with varying gifts accordingly. The way that Kurt's expression softened each time one of them handed him a present made Blaine's heart lift, knowing that he was so loved among his friends.

He took Kurt out to a quaint little restaurant for lunch, relishing the way that Kurt bubbled throughout the entire conversation. He even let Kurt have the entire cheesecake with promises to keep half for later and offer tummy rubs as a consolation prize for inevitably eating too much.

Blaine's own present didn't come until after the Hudson-Hummel dinner, in which he drew Kurt aside and presented him with his own satchel. It was good leather, with a nice red stain to it that matched most of Kurt's outfits beautifully. At first, Kurt had wanted to refuse, insisting that it was Blaine's and he couldn't accept. Blaine had leaned forward and kissed him once, then, assuring that he would love nothing more than for Kurt to accept. Kurt had warily taken the bag from him, slinging it over his own shoulder and smiling a little.

And when Blaine baked him cookies that night, he accepted them without a second thought.

"Happy birthday," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Kurt's collarbone while Kurt hummed, happy and sated, his fingers tracing up and down Blaine's back slowly.

"Happy birthday to me," Kurt agreed, tilting his head up to kiss him. "We're the same age now," he added with a slight grin, pecking Blaine on the nose.

Blaine chuckled. "Not for long," he murmured. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

"I will," Kurt assured, pulling him down for another, longer kiss.

* * *

The last day of Glee club was solemn.

The white board had been swiped clean. Each unused seat had been stacked in the corners, ready to be locked away in storage until next year. The floors were polished, the trash cans empty, even the cupboards organized befitting the occasion. Brad the pianist sat at the covered piano, watching Mr. Schuester as he stood in the center of the room, not saying anything.

"This is it, guys," he said at last, scanning the room and offering a weak smile. "Last day of Glee rehearsal."

No one spoke. No one dared breathe, it seemed.

"To all our seniors . . . I know you have great things in your future," he assured, looking at each of them in turn. "I've seen what you can do just in this classroom. And for the rest of you . . ." His gaze lingered on the few remaining. "We still have another year to make it great."

They all nodded, too stunned for actual words. Kurt's hand was gripping his own knee so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Blaine wordlessly slid his hand over it, easing the fingers away and intertwining their hands instead. Kurt relaxed infinitesimally.

"I want you all to know that . . . I am so incredibly proud of you," Mr. Schuester went on. "You've done the unthinkable. You beat a five-time national champion. That's . . . that's amazing."

"We couldn't have done it without you," Finn piped in helpfully. "You kept Glee club together when none of us wanted to be here."

"Some of us did," Rachel quipped unthinkingly.

"You all do now," Mr. Schuester replied. "You've all earned your places here. Now you get to pass them on to someone else." He clasped his hands together, offering them a small smile. "This room will still be here next year, but most of you won't. These chairs, this piano, these floors -- they'll all be the same when the next group comes in. But you guys were special. You are special. Don't ever forget that, okay?"

They nodded. "We won't," Finn replied quietly.

Mr. Schuester nodded, running a hand through his hair, saying nothing.

When the bell finally rang, no one moved. At last, Brad stood up, the rest of the group shuffling towards the doors in response, somehow gravitating towards each other in the process. Hugs were exchanged, silent tears shed as they offered promises and reassurances without words. A solitary voice broke the silence: "Rehearsal tonight?" Tina asked, posing the question to everyone and no one.

For one long moment, no one responded. Then: "Of course," Blaine replied instinctively.

And so it was. Puck brought his guitar and Sam sang harmony as they belted out choruses to various songs, the rest of the Glee club joining in whenever they recognized the tune. Artie and Mercedes dug out a couple packs of cards, the group splitting in order to play. Tina arrived with pizza and drinks within the hour, careful not to spill any on the hardwood flooring. For hours, they passed the time trading off karaoke and games, leaning against each other and laughing and bickering playfully.

And so it was that, once and for all, the New Directions were finally at peace.

* * *

"I can't believe we're going to New York," Rachel gushed, looking between Kurt and Blaine and beaming. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. We're actually going to be living in New York."

"It's amazing," Blaine agreed, rubbing Kurt's hand soothingly. "Aren't you . . . upset that Finn isn't coming?" he added, wincing at his utter lack of delicacy. Three days of virtual sleeplessness hadn't made him any more tactful, it seemed. Thankfully, Santana wasn't around to kick him underneath the table, sparing him that discomfort.

Rachel's expression briefly morphed into a slightly less enthusiastic version of its previous self before she offered a slight, resigned shrug. "It's his decision," she said primly. "I'm not worried about our relationship. Finn loves me and I love him, and we've agreed to be exclusive. He won't stray just because he's not in the same state, and neither will I."

"I hope you're right," Blaine said seriously.

"I am," Rachel assured, looking between the two of them. "Why are you two so somber? You're usually more excited than this."

"We've just . . . been thinking about the future a lot," Blaine admitted. Sleepless nights on both ends with neither willing to admit it hadn't been conducive to good moods; Blaine knew that Kurt wasn't sleeping just as he knew that Kurt knew he wasn't sleeping.

"We'll see each other every day," Rachel teased, reaching across the Lima Bean table to offer Blaine's hand a slight squeeze. "What are you two so afraid of? You're practically inseparable."

"New York is different," Kurt prompted, sighing slightly. "What if . . . what if things change? I don't . . . I don't want us to drift apart."

Blaine gave his hand a light squeeze. "We won't," he assured quietly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Okay?"

"How do you know that?" Kurt demanded, pulling back from Blaine a little so he could look at him and Rachel seriously. "How can either of you know that it'll work out? That it will be okay?"

"Because I trust him," Rachel said simply, shrugging. "I love Finn, I trust him. I know he's the one."

Kurt's gaze fell on Blaine, terrified and anticipatory and needy all at once.

"I love you. I trust you. I know you're the one," he echoed softly, cupping Kurt's cheek and just nuzzling their noses. "Okay?"

Kurt swallowed, a barely audible click of his throat as he rested his forehead against Blaine's. "I love you," he whispered.

Blaine kissed him. "I love you, too. We're gonna make this work."

Kurt pulled back a little, nodding. "We will," he agreed, turning his attention back to Rachel. "I think you and Finn can make it, too. If you want to."

"We will," Rachel repeated seriously. "I know him."

Kurt inclined his hand, giving Blaine's hand a gentle squeeze. "We'll all make it," he promised. "And it'll be amazing."


	65. Chapter 65

"Can I ask you a question?"

Ms. Pillsbury looked up, surprised, as Blaine tapped on the doorjamb, a slight, startled smile on her face. "Absolutely, no problem, come in," she urged, clearing some of the folders off her desk in one fell swoop. She hurriedly adjusted her pencil holder, carefully pulling out one of the pens and laying it beside a clean sheaf of paper, folding her hands on the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I need some advice, actually," Blaine said, sliding into one of the chairs and resting his satchel on his knees.

"Okay, well, you've come to the right place," Ms. Pillsbury said, smiling. "How can I help?"

"I have . . . sort of a rocky relationship with my parents," Blaine began. He'd spent hours contemplating the easiest way to phrase it without making it sound like he had abusive or negligent parents, eventually settling on the simplest terms that he could. "We've tried reaching out to each other in the past, but we usually end up in our separate corners regardless of what we do." He shrugged, spreading his hands in an ambivalent gesture. "I got accepted into Tisch--"

"Congratulations," Ms. Pillsbury said, beaming.

Blaine offered a small smile. "Thank you. I got accepted and now I'm worried that if I leave for New York, we won't talk to each other." More quietly, he added, "I'm lucky enough that I have both my parents and they're willing to reach out to me, but we keep hitting a stumbling block and it just feels like we never make any progress."

"Have you tried talking to them about it?"

"Repeatedly," Blaine said. Then, concessionary: "We haven't talked that much about it, but we've brought it up more than once."

"Okay. Okay, well, it sounds like you three are on the right track. When did you notice that you stopped speaking in the first place?"

Blaine bit his lip. "At my old school -- before I went to Dalton -- there was a dance and it ended badly. They didn't take it very well."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded once. Blaine didn't need to ask if she had heard about the information circulated about his old Sadie Hawkins' dance long ago, courtesy of Jacob Ben Israel's blog: it didn't matter. "Okay. What made you notice the change?"

"The silence," Blaine said at once. "My parents have never been the most outspoken people about anything, but . . . after that, it was like I didn't exist." He offered a light, self-deprecating shrug. "I didn't really care once I found my niche at Dalton, but lately it's been harder to ignore."

"And why is that?" Ms. Pillsbury prompted gently.

Blaine was quiet for a time, considering that. He didn't know why it bothered him so much: his parents had never been exceptionally outgoing individuals. They had always kept their distance, preferring to witness his growth from afar and offer candid comments at opportune moments rather than lengthy conversations. Enrolled as he was in summer camps and extracurriculars, he didn't notice the void left by a lack of activities, an emptiness meant to be filled with unconditional parental support.

"At Dalton, I trusted the Warblers," Blaine said at last. "I thought that they would never hurt me. I was wrong, and they tried to hurt Kurt. And as much as I love the Glee club here at McKinley, they're going to be graduating soon, and we probably won't see each other for years once the summer's over." Shrugging, he finished softly, "Kurt and his family have been . . . beyond generous, but I don't feel comfortable knowing that the only people that will support me if something goes wrong are directly related to my boyfriend. If something were to happen between Kurt and I. . . ."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded. "You don't want to be abandoned."

"I don't want to put Kurt in a position where he feels obligated to care for me even if we're in the middle of a fight," Blaine amended. "And, yes, I don't want to be left on my own if something bad happens. If we . . . break up."

"Have you and Kurt talked that over?"

Blaine pursed his lips. "We've discussed the possibility of a break up, yes," he said quietly. "We don't want to, but we've talked about it. We can't avoid living the same apartment -- it's too expensive to rent out separate lofts -- but Rachel's going to stay with us and hopefully she'll keep things from getting explosive. If nothing else, we'll have classes and hopefully jobs or internships to keep us busy."

"It's good that you two understand that that's a possibility," Ms. Pillsbury said. "Realistic is good. Which is why it's also good that you want to mend your relationship with your parents. Parents can -- parents can be a tough subject, because sometimes what they want for their children isn't the best for them, and other times . . . well, other times they just need to take a more active role. I think it's very encouraging that yours have already expressed an interest in becoming a more active part of your life."

She leaned over and pulled open a file cabinet under her desk, rifling through a drawer and pulling out a pamphlet, sliding it across the desk top carefully. "'Communication is key,'" she read. "As often as teenagers and adults alike apply that term to romantic relationships, it's really the golden rule for any relationship. If you don't have communication, then you don't have a relationship. It's really that simple."

Blaine picked up the pamphlet carefully, staring at the cartoon diagram on the cover of two stick figures with their arms crossed facing away from each other. He browsed through it, noting tactful drawings of the same unhappy stick figures placed next to each bullet. Be honest and respect each other were two of the highlights; Blaine didn't know what to make of take risks.

"You need to tell them how you really feel," Ms. Pillsbury said as he paused on express your emotions. "You're already at a point where they're willing to listen. If you can show them that you're concerned about the future of your relationship, then you can start talking about ways to mend it. Whether you're angry or upset or frustrated or just unhappy, you need to let them know if you want to bridge the gap between you."

"And if they don't listen?"

"If they don't listen, then they're not ready," Ms. Pillsbury replied, her voice taking on an almost gentle quality as she leaned forward, clearly trying to emphasize how willing and receptive she was to his thoughts and concerns. It was nice, in a way: Blaine couldn't remember the last time outside of Kurt's family someone had expressed such genuine concern for him. Except for the time when his mother had looked at him like a prodigal's son when he returned for a brief visit, hope and wonder and a hint of fear in her eyes as she looked at him. Blaine carefully shut those thoughts out, focusing on the present instead as Ms. Pillsbury finished with, ". . . once they're ready, they'll listen."

Nodding in acceptance, Blaine pocketed the pamphlet, shouldered his satchel, and stood up. "Thank you for your time," he said simply.

"It was my pleasure," Ms. Pillsbury assured. "Good luck. If you need any more advice, feel free to stop by. I'm here for the rest of the week." She smiled.

Blaine nodded again as he stepped out of the office, his chest constricting a little as he realized that she meant it: one more week and everything would change. The seniors would graduate while the rest of the students braced themselves for another year. Clubs would be disbanded and reopened for auditions mid-summer, leading roles usurped and reclaimed as fresh blood arose to the challenge. It was especially strange to the think that the choir room, doubling temporarily as a storage room in the absence of the New Directions, would soon enough be filled with a dozen fresh new faces eager to tackle their first competition.

Heart in his throat, he pushed his way through the doors to the boys' locker rooms, deciding that a good boxing session wouldn't hurt. He needed to clear his thoughts, and Kurt was out at lunch with Mercedes and Tina, anyway. Blaine had been lucky to catch Ms. Pillsbury at an off time; most teachers took lunch breaks alongside their students, but he'd chanced the possibility that she might have been busy in the last few days of school and lucked out.

Walking slowly through the motions of stripping down to his undershirt and tugging on a pair of boxing gloves, he sank his fist into the punching bag, savoring the way it thudded on impact. He punched it several more times in rapid succession, quickly building up a rhythm that had him grunting with each blow. It made it easy to tune out the rest of the world, focused entirely as he was on the red column in front of him. Each hit landed with a satisfying thud, packed with enough force to sway the bag but not so much that it rebounded back painfully. Time passed in a blur, his chest heaving with exertion by the time a hand fell on his shoulder, giving it a single hard squeeze.

"Blaine," Kurt said, sounding half-fond, half-exasperated as he tugged him away from the bag, still swinging from his final punch. Blaine sank heavily back onto the bench that Kurt guided him towards, offering a sheepish grin up at him. "How long have you been down here?" he asked, reaching out and picking up Blaine's left glove, carefully prying it off. "Hm? I tried calling you like, five times." He pulled off his right glove, dropping them next to Blaine's bag. "Did something happen?" he asked, more gently, as he started unraveling the protective bandages. When they were both gone Blaine flexed his hands, a breathy sigh of relief escaping him. "Blaine?"

"I just needed a break," Blaine assured, reaching out to pet Kurt's arm once soothingly. He would have squeezed it, but his hands were still cramping a little from being trapped inside the gloves so long and a quick, gentle stroke was the best he could manage. "Besides, I won't be able to box during the summer. I should fit in as much as I can now."

Kurt huffed a little, picking up his boxing gear and dumping it into his duffle bag, zipping it up when he was done. He pulled out the spare clothes Blaine had in his locker, tossing them on the bench beside him before grabbing the corners of Blaine's sweaty undershirt and unceremoniously pulling it over his head.

"Hey," Blaine grumbled, reaching up to smooth down his doubtless hideously ruffled hair.

"Go shower," Kurt urged, handing him the clothes and tugging him to his feet, giving him a firm nudge towards the showers.

Blaine rolled his eyes, leaning forward for a quick peck and a murmured, "I love you, too," as he sauntered off.

He was at least eighty percent sure that Kurt totally ogled his ass the entire walk, and would have continued to do so had the shower's privacy partition not existed.

Still, the shower was good, even with Kurt staring at his torso in an entirely distracting way. It let his heart rate come down and the flush drain from his face and upper body, easing tense muscles until he felt almost boneless with relief under the water. He'd definitely have to find another sport to invest his time in, he realized, once boxing wasn't an option. Tisch doubtless had athletic programs, but finding one that suited him and didn't require two hundred percent effort was critical. He didn't want his entire life to revolve around sports, but he needed to be active -- it cleared his head and brought him back to earth. Even the task of talking to his parents didn't seem quite so daunting as he languished under the hot water. As long as his mother was willing to speak with him and his father tentatively so, they could do this.

They didn't hate him, he knew.

They just didn't understand him.

"You're going to prune," Kurt warned dryly, breaking into his reverie as he idly pretended to scroll through his texts, seated cross-legged on one of the benches. Blaine hummed, turning off the shower head and toweling himself dry, wrapping it around his waist when he was finished. "Besides, I thought you were going to help me pick out an outfit for graduation."

Blaine paused, cocking his head at Kurt as he shimmied into a pair of jeans. "Kurt, the gown covers everything," he pointed out, aiming for gentle but unable to help a grin from crossing his face. He could picture it perfectly, too: a swarm of red-and-white gowned McKinley seniors evenly arranged in rows with a single dazzling figure in their midst.

"I know," Kurt assured, undeterred, as he elaborated, "I have to have something to wear afterward; those gowns are stifling."

Shaking his head in amusement, Blaine finished pulling on his pants, shrugging on the clean undershirt and cardigan Kurt had left him. He padded over to the bench and plopped down beside Kurt, playfully nudging his shoulder before leaning down to tug on and tie his shoes. "If it'll make you happy, we can look for an outfit," he assured, leaning over to peck his cheek.

Kurt smiled, tucking his cheek against Blaine's shoulder. "Thank you."

Blaine kissed him once on the nose. "You're welcome."

And even if it meant arguing about the suitability of no less than fifteen of Kurt's finest outfits, then at least Kurt let him watch Downton Abbey as he played with his hair later.

* * *

Brian Anderson hadn't changed much. He was still quiet and reserved when Blaine approached his table, offering only a single startled, "Blaine," before regaining his composure. Laying his newspaper aside and folding his hands, he watched Blaine intently as he settled into the chair across from him, a medium drip in his hands. Blaine had chosen the Cornerstone as a courtesy: the coffee shop served as a fairly neutral location that didn't have the same unfortunate undertones that his house did. Taking a long, fortifying gulp from his coffee, he set it aside, leaning back in his chair a little as he looked at his father.

"I know you wanted to talk about Tisch," Brian began promptly, referring to the email Blaine had sent him in regards to the location and time of their meeting. "Between your living situation and your tuition costs, we've worked out the financial costs for the next four years." Reaching around and pulling a manila folder out of his briefcase, Brian calmly explained the numbers, charting out his path for the next four years mathematically. Blaine watched without interrupting, leaning forward intently and nodding along whenever Brian glanced up for affirmation.

At first, he didn't look up at all, engrossed in the calculations. With an almost visible start, he looked up at Blaine, an almost guilty expression on his face as his mouth turned down briefly before he focused back on the technicalities. As Blaine offered nothing but nods and unwavering attention, Brian seemed to relax, his posture remaining rigid but his hand movements freer, his speech less formal.

"I understand you have some living arrangements already picked out?" Brian asked, pausing to take a sip from his own coffee as Blaine nodded and pulled out the folder he'd compiled, pictures and statistics alike. He wordlessly passed the folder over to Brian's scrutiny, watching as he nodded slightly, brow furrowing in contemplation as he looked it over. Once, Blaine realized, he would have been offended by Brian's utter lack of responsiveness, mulling over his thoughts silently with rarely a word offered in either criticism or praise. It had always amazed Blaine that his mother, usually gentler and infinitesimally more outspoken, had ever ended up with him, but he could see the quiet, fortified intelligence behind those intense hazel eyes.

When Brian opened the discussion with a simple, "Are you sure you want to live with Kurt?" Blaine knew his opportunity had arisen.

"I already live with him and his family," he said quietly, watching Brian's face.

Brian nodded once, stiffly. "You do," he agreed. "If I recall correctly, you were never banished from our house." He eyed Blaine, curiosity and challenge mingling.

"They've made me feel more at home over the past six months than you ever have," Blaine retorted quietly.

Silence. Brian said nothing as he stared at the papers, feigning interest in the descriptions themselves. Blaine knew that he had already read them; he could tell by the tension in his jaw. At last, Brian looked up, his gaze unreadable as he said, "We want the best for you. You chose to stay with them, and they extended their hospitality to you. We felt it was not our place to intervene."

"I know this is hard for you to understand, but Burt Hummel isn't my father -- you are," Blaine retorted. "Carole isn't my mother, either. I love them and I'm so grateful that I have them to support me, but they're not my parents. You are. And I don't want to stop being your son."

It hurt, admitting that, knowing that Brian could easily turn it against him with a cool response that Blaine was still their son. Brian knew -- he had to -- that that wasn't what Blaine meant. They didn't share the same love and affection that Burt and Kurt shared, unconditional and irrevocable, and Blaine ached for that, needed it in some small, guilty center of his being.

And he didn't just want it from Burt. He wanted it from Brian.

"I don't know how you want me to treat you, Blaine," Brian responded at last, and it was the most honest thing he had said to him in a very long time.

"I want you to treat me like a human being," Blaine said, leaning forward, deliberately shrinking the distance between them. Brian didn't shy away or stiffen; buoyed by the lack of opposition, Blaine went on. "I want you to look at me with the same respect that you give your clients. I want you to listen to me. I want you to hear me out and weigh my opinion carefully. I want you to support me."

He could almost see the wheels turning in Brian's mind, drawing connections between Blaine's statements and his own actions. Relief and confusion mingled in his expression as he realized that he had already fulfilled that portion of Blaine's demands; Blaine didn't let the encouragement linger long before he continued.

"I want you to be there for me when I'm hurt or upset or disappointed," he went on, almost seeing the shadows creeping in once more, doubt and trepidation. He didn't let them deter him, needing to speak out at last. "I want you to accept that I'm not the perfect son. I want you to be there for me when I fail and succeed."

Then, looking up at Brian, he said quietly, "I want you to love me. I want you to love me even though I'm gay. I want you to love me even though I'm into musical theater and performance. I want you to love me even though we're different and we don't always know what to say to each other. I want you to love me even though I'm going to hurt and upset and disappoint you. I want you to love me no matter what, because I need you."

There were no tears, no dramatic outbursts or sudden cries of dismay. There was no spilled coffee or scattered coffee, no shouts of outrage or joy. There wasn't even a choked apology, a raspy plea for forgiveness.

One moment Brian could have been carved from stone, unmoving and implacable.

In the next, he closed the gap between them and gave Blaine's hand a single gentle squeeze. It was different from when Kurt did it -- Kurt intertwined their fingers, bringing to life the puzzle piece metaphor again and again -- but Brian closed his fingers over Blaine's, covering them. Protective. Gentle. Understanding.

"I do love you," he said quietly, his voice meant for Blaine's ears alone. "I know that I haven't acted accordingly in the past, but I love you." He let the words hang between them, giving Blaine's hand another squeeze as he added, "You are my son. I'm not going to lose you again." Looking right at Blaine, he corrected, "You're not going to lose me again."

Blaine nodded once, feeling relief unfurl in his chest. "That's all I ask," he answered quietly.

Brian echoed his nod, saying nothing for a time. At last, he pulled his hand away, gathering up all the papers together and gently slotting them back into his briefcase. He clicked it shut, turning towards Blaine and glancing at his coffee. Without a word, he stood, gathering both of their empty cups and depositing them in the trash.

Returning a moment later with fresh coffees, he eased himself back into his chair, sliding Blaine's across the table and saying simply, "Tell me what I've missed."

Blaine breathed out slowly, taking a long sip of his coffee, and began.

"Two years ago, Kurt and I met at Dalton. . . ."

* * *

"Welcome, friends, parents, benefactors, and alumni of William McKinley High School to the 2012 graduation ceremony."

Kurt tapped his foot anxiously against the linoleum floor as he listened to Principal Figgins' speech, glancing around at the hundred of students lining the hallways on either side. The buzz in the room was palpable as the seniors awaited their shining moment to walk across the stage and receive their high school diploma. For some, it was the end of the road; job opportunities in the real world awaited. For others, it was only one more series of trials completed, another, even more incredible experience looming ahead. Community and local colleges would snatch up the majority of those who did pursue a secondary education; only a few brave souls would venture beyond Ohio's borders in search of greater pursuits.

Kurt's heart raced as he listened to Figgins' droning talk cease, a polite smattering of applause echoing within the auditorium itself. Hundreds of parents had crammed into the room, lining the walls where seating was not available. The new graduates would be seated in the front rows once they had accepted their diplomas; specially honored students were given seats on the stage itself. Fortunately for the students and adults in attendance, Sue Sylvester had taken charge of the actual commencement, disclaiming Figgins' dull speech as soon as the applause died down.

With barely a pause to give Kurt time to process the fact that their graduation was actually happening, Sue Sylvester launched into a spirited mispronunciation of the first dozen students' names.

Mr. Schuester bustled on stage after the first three names or so, interceding with a hurried correction for the next five seniors before sighing and disappearing into the background. Kurt was so caught up in listening to his former cheerleading coach announce the graduates that he didn't notice someone sneak up behind him until Blaine threaded his arms around his waist.

"Hey, you," he murmured, a broad smile on his face as he squeezed Kurt's waist once lightly. "You gonna be okay?" He reached up and gave Kurt's hand a squeeze, adding, "You look like you're going to pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out," Kurt protested faintly, his head buzzing. Blaine frowned, pulling him aside momentarily and cupping his cheeks. "I'm not," Kurt insisted in a murmur.

Blaine pressed a handkerchief in his hand and Kurt sniffed, staring at it in disbelief. "What--" Lifting it to Kurt's cheek and dabbing it once, Blaine let go of Kurt's hand, pressing the handkerchief against Kurt's palm. "I don't need it," Kurt protested, sniffing again.

"Keep it," Blaine replied, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. He guided him back in line a moment later, apologizing for him to the seniors he had to dislodge to do so. They grumbled a little before quieting, moving forward with the rest of the line. Blaine disappeared, and Kurt heard his name what felt like seconds later, a smattering of applause greeting his arrival before the next graduate moved in.

It seemed to take hours before they reached the Hs, Kurt trembling finely by the time he stood in the wings, ready to take the final walk across the stage. At long last, Sue Sylvester barked, "Kurt Porcelain Hummel," and Kurt strode out from the shadows.

His steps were slow and measured, his smile broad and beaming as he accepted his diploma, looking out at the crowd and immediately spotting his dad, out of his seat and pointing energetically at Kurt, shouting, "Attaboy, Kurt!" to anyone who would listen. Choking on laughter and hurrying to take his seat before Sue made any other comments about him, he gratefully blew into the handkerchief as he fell into his seat, barely aware of the rest of the seniors around him. Even the final ceremonies passed in a blur, standing as one and waiting for Figgins' cue to move their tassels.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, Kurt hyper-aware of the hush around him. He could almost pick out the New Directions seated throughout the crowd, most in gown and cap, a handful in normal attire. He spotted the back of Blaine's head two rows to his left, back straight and entire posture beaming with pride.

And when the time came to turn the tassel, Kurt felt a rush of relief wash over him as Figgins announced them graduates and the auditorium erupted into cheers.

We made it, he realized, letting Blaine scoop him up into a hug and holding him back just as tightly. We made it.

* * *

Blaine's parents were there, Kurt discovered later when Blaine told him about his brief encounter with them amidst the festivities. His expression was jubilant, his eyes shining as he explained that in spite of everything, he'd actually convinced his parents to attend his high school graduation. Kurt had just smiled at him and pulled him down for a kiss, lazily enjoying the few moments that they had to themselves. It wasn't long before they had to hurry home to change out of their formal wear into the outfits Kurt had picked out days before in order to celebrate Sugar's graduation party at the 'Sugar Shack.'

Once they arrived, they were absorbed into the atmosphere, smiling and laughing along. There were hugs and karaoke and questionably legal beverages all around. Kurt thoroughly partook in the latter, drowning out his emotions in punch that was most likely one-third juice, two-thirds alcohol. It was okay, though, because Blaine smiled at all his jokes and let him lean against him and only started taking away his drinks after the fourth or fifth Dixie cup (Kurt still managed to sneak two more past his notice -- not that Blaine needed to know that).

They sang and danced and even played truth or dare for a time, dissolving into strip poker once Santana and Puck entered the game. Blaine had steered Kurt away from it (at the time, Kurt had loudly protested that he would kick everyone's ass), to Kurt's eternal gratitude. He didn't want to think about what sort of pictures could have surfaced from that debacle. Thankfully, the evening had started to wind down, enough that Kurt and Blaine could excuse themselves with Blaine mostly steering Kurt around the bar to say his goodbyes. He'd hiccupped his way through half of them, slurring out promises that even Blaine had trouble keeping track of.

It helped that Blaine was there to drive him home -- Finn was preoccupied with Rachel -- and bundle him up into bed without attracting undue attention from either of the parents. Of course, when Kurt leaped out of bed and made a surprisingly agile dash for his private bath at three in the morning, Blaine was quick to follow, rubbing his back soothingly as he hacked up at least a third of his intestines, sleepily insisting that he wasn't drunk between heaves. Blaine somehow managed to get him back in bed, tucking him in with a waste basket by his side, kissing his forehead once and curling up next to him.

When Kurt asked why he had let him drink at all the next morning, Blaine had apologetically explained that he hadn't realized that Puck had spiked the punch until it was too late (the first batch had been clean, he elaborated, in order to entice the crowd into a false sense of security). Kurt had assured him that Puck and he would have words (they never did, but Blaine had nodded seriously, all the same).

The weekend passed in a blur. Kurt spent most of his time trying to keep track of all the incoming text messages, mostly from Rachel, a mixture of promises and demands to meet up over the summer. He made arrangements to be at other graduation parties and even finished organizing his wardrobe. All in all, he was feeling pretty good about himself, accomplished and flushed with victory.

As he sat in the Lima Bean late that Sunday night with a coffee in his hands and the prospect an entire summer ahead of him, he couldn't help the broad smile that curled his lips as he intertwined his fingers with Blaine's on top of the table, giving his hand a light squeeze.

"I can't believe we actually made it," he said softly, running his thumb over the back of Blaine's hand, coffee abandoned.

Blaine cocked his head at him, curious.

"I mean, I knew we'd graduate," Kurt amended. "It just . . . seems so surreal. With all that's happened. That we're here." He gave Blaine's hand an emphatic squeeze.

Blaine smiled. "I know," he answered, amused. "Was it as magical as you thought it would be?"

Kurt paused, staring down at their intertwined hands for a long time, saying nothing.

At last, a soft smile on his face, he said simply, "I think it was."

Blaine smiled back.

* * *

_Three months later._

"Kurt, if you don't hurry up, Finn's not going to help you carry your luggage!" Rachel sing-songed, all but dancing with glee as she flitted about their new loft. Blaine grunted as he dropped one of the suitcases on the floor, breathing out heavily in relief. He'd already single-handedly carried half their total baggage in before Finn had arrived (Rachel was too busy crying and Kurt admiring the view to do much).

"Finn's carrying the mini-fridge," Blaine piped in, puffing as he went out to retrieve more bags.

"Blaine, darling, don't forget the one in the front!" Rachel called after him, picking up two of the bags by the door and carting them over to 'her' side of the room.

Kurt could already see how they would partition it out, with a kitchen and a living room and a general area for sleeping. The loft itself was immense, huge for a New York apartment, but they'd bargained it out among the three of them and decided that, so long as they were willing to take the risk of being mugged if they went out late at night or broken in to during the day, they would enjoy it. Rachel certainly seemed thrilled at the prospect of not one but two room mates -- people she knew, nonetheless. Kurt worried about what it would be like after a week or so of nonstop Berry: never mind a month or semester. Still, he was hopeful, and Blaine's enthusiasm had helped bolster his own when he felt low.

As long as they were all willing to try coexisting, then they could make it work. Somehow. Some way.

As Finn heaved the mini-fridge into the loft, Kurt stepped outside to where Carole and his dad were idling with the Berrys, chatting amicably about the weather. They looked like proud parents: beaming and bright-eyed and fooling no one with their lack of tears. It was a hard moment, and Kurt could feel, amidst his excitement, creeping trepidation at the thought of leaving them. At least they were going out to dinner tonight as one big family: he wouldn't have to actually worry about being abandoned until then.

Hurrying back inside when he heard a crashing noise, he sighed when he noticed that Finn had accidentally dropped the mini-fridge on its side, instructing him on the proper way to instill it while Leroy Berry supervised, Hiram offering pointers from outside the room. At last, they had all the luggage in and could properly admire the place, cluttered and unorganized though it was.

Dinner was a similarly cluttered and unorganized affair, the Berrys largely providing guidance around the big city. Kurt stayed close to Blaine's side, one arm tucked around his as they walked briskly along, enjoying the warm late summer air. When they arrived at a suitable restaurant, the battle appeared only half won, the Berrys once more interceding on everyone's behalf by ordering their table and offering everyone refreshments. The meals came in fair time and Kurt ended up picking more off Blaine's plate than his own, ignoring the way that Blaine playfully batted his fork away (Blaine stole from his plate, anyway).

Dessert was a tumultuous affair, with the Berrys arguing energetically over the best option while the Hudson-Hummels picked out their fares without much adieu about anything. At last, everyone had placed an order, Kurt and Blaine sharing a slice of mousse cake while Leroy and Hiram criticized the merits of each other's selections.

It was all so domestic and normal and easygoing that Kurt let himself drift, resting his cheek against Blaine's shoulder while the adults -- plus Finn and Rachel -- chatted. He blinked awake when Blaine nudged him, smiling apologetically at him as they shuffled out of their seats and made their way back into the cold.

It was a more solemn affair once they arrived at the apartment, the adults bidding them goodbye with hugs all around and promises to see them off in the morning before they left. Finn stayed the night by request, and Kurt and Blaine simply made room by sharing a bed.

As Kurt curled up on the bed, his cheek resting against Blaine's chest as he snored softly, he couldn't help but think that somehow, they had succeeded. They were trials yet to be had -- college, for one, and work after that -- and separation to cope with. But knowing that he had Blaine at his side was comforting, warm and lulling and familiar. He loved that they had been able to spend so much of the summer together, focusing their attentions on preparing for college and enjoying their final 'carefree' days. Blaine had even rekindled his relationship with his parents somewhat, staying at their house three days at a time before spending time at the Hudson-Hummels. He looked . . . happier, somehow, each time he did show up at Kurt's door, smiling at him. Less troubled.

When he'd carried his laptop around the loft, Skype on and commentary rolling off his tongue, Kurt couldn't help but think that maybe Blaine would manage it. They weren't perfect -- the Andersons hadn't shown up for the send off, even though Blaine had spent almost a week at their place prior to the departure - but they were growing. Learning to accept each other in new ways.

Listening to him breathe, slow and even, Kurt closed his own eyes, curling his fingers in the fabric of Blaine's shirt.

They weren't perfect, either.

But they would make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap!

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
